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THE  PARCHMENT 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 


BY 

R.  A,  S.  WADE 


CHRISTMAS,   1908 

COCHRANE   PUBLISHING   CO. 

NEW   YORK 


Copyright,  1908,  by 
COCHRANE  PUBLISHING  CO. 


FOREWORD. 

THIS  volume  was  written,  not  for  publication,  but  to 
while  away  the  idle  hours  spent  in  caring  for  an  invalid 
companion.  At  the  solicitation  of  a  gentleman  in  the 
East,  himself  an  author  well  known  in  literary  circles  and 
among  scholars  throughout  the  country  as  a  forceful 
writer  of  good  books,  I  decided  to  publish  it.  The  in- 
dulgence of  the  reader  is  therefore  asked  inasmuch  as  the 
book  is  published  largely  for  circulation  among  personal 
friends. 

R.  A.  S.  WADE. 

Echo  Park  Ave.  and  Cerro  Gordo  St., 

Los  Angeles,  Cal. 


2073767 


CONTENTS. 

PACK 

The  Parchment 7 

Witchaire  and  Matilde  41 

Jess  and  1 89 

A  Night  in  1865 98 

A  Visitor's  Story 105 

Old  Sumach  112 

The  Home  on  the  Hill 119 

Christmas  Present 126 

The  Old  Dinner  Horn 128 

The  Columns , 131 

The  Critic 134 

John  of  Tyrone 136 

Iva  Cafiada 139 

Rachel 142 

The  Dreamer 144 

Santa  Ana  Commandery,  K.  T 145 

Tom..  146 


THE  PARCHMENT. 


One  day  there  came  in  from  the  wady 
A  man  that  was  taken  with  cramp, 
"Who  asked  for  some  ginger  and  toddy 
And  rested  awhile  in  the  camp, 
And  tied  on  his  hack 
He  carried  a  pack 
And  slightly  resembled  a  tramp. 


We  found  him  a  classical  scholar 

And  learned  in  lore  of  the  East, 
And  though  he  seemed  pressed  for  a  dollar 
His  talk  was  an  erudite  feast, 
His  words  were  but  few 
And  thrilled  us  quite  through, 
And  sorry  we  were  when  he  ceased. 


He'd  toiled  in  a  Japanese  college, 

And  taught  the  unspeakable  Turk, 
Had  sought  with  the  Brahman  for  knowledge 
And  preached  to  the  lost  in  the  kirk, 
And  now  with  the  aid 
Of  fellahs  and  spade 
Was  down  there  in  Egypt  at  work. 

7 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

He  said  in  a  brief  explanation 
That  he  with  a  few  fellaheen 
Was  making  a  small  excavation, 
And,  all  undisturbed  and  serene, 
He  said  he  had  found 
Some  things  in  the  ground 
That  no  modern  scholar  had  seen. 

Out  there  on  the  side  of  the  wady 

Within  a  deserted  old  tomb, 
Wrapped  up  with  a  mummified  body 
His  fortune  it  was  to  exhume 
A  parchment  that  told 
A  story  of  old 
When  Joseph's  fair  cheeks  were  in  bloom. 

The   stranger   then   further   related, 

A  thing  he  regretted  to  own, 
That  but  a  small  part  was  translated, 
Since  he  was  at  work  and  alone; 
The  translation  made 
Was  done  without  aid 
Of  key  or  the  Rosetta  Stone. 

And  then  upon  our  invitation 
He  kindly  consented  to  read 
A  part  of  his  recent  translation, 
And  we  very  gladly  gave  heed; 
His  voice,  soft  and  clear, 
Was  pleasant  to  hear, 
And   thrilling  the   story  indeed. 

8 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

The  record  was  wrapped  with  the  body 

And   buried,  the  chronicle   said, 
Out  there  by  the  desolate  wady 

Where  outlaws  and  robbers  had  fled, 
To  publish  the  tale 
Where  lost  spirits  wail 
And  weep  with  the  criminal  dead. 

The  parchment  contained  the  proceedings, 

The  records  and  written  reports, 
The  oaths  and  attorneys'  old  pleadings 
Of  one  of  King  Pharaoh's  old  courts, 
The  man  that  was  dead 
Commanded,  it  said, 
The  guards  and  frontier  towns,  or  forts. 

Before  Jacob  fled  to  Chaldea 

Where  tarried  his  fathers  of  old, 
A  sister  of  Rachel  and  Leah 
Was  stolen  away,  we  are  told, 
And,  bartered  the  while, 
At  last  on  the  Nile 
To  young  Potipherah  was  sold. 

As  all  of  the  daughters  of  Terah 

Divinely,  surpassingly  fair, 
She  dwelt  with  the  young  Potipherah 
Adopted,  a  sister,  an  heir, 
So  lovely,  so  good, 
Transcendent  she  stood 
The  dominant  influence  there. 


His  father,  his  mother,  his  sister 

Each  worshipped  the  beautiful  maid, 
No  heart  in  their  home  could  resist  her; 
So  gentle,  so  winsome,  so  staid, 
The  older  she  grew, 
Still  faithful  and  true, 
More  helpful  the  part  that  she  played. 

She  kept  her  Semitic  name,  Nerah, 
And,  filled  with  the  spirit  divine, 
She  worshipped  the  God  of  old  Terah 
And  openly  bowed  at  his  shrine; 
She  held  to  the  right, 
She  walked  in  the  light, 
Inspiring  a  spirit  benign. 

And  when  the  Chaldean,  fair  Nerah, 

Was  grown  to  young  woman's  estate, 
She  married  the  young  Potipherah 

And  moved  with  the  proud  and  the  great, 
And  Laban's  fair  child, 
So  gentle  and  mild, 
Was  linked  with  the  Israelites'  fate. 

Long  years  were  gone  by  and  fair  Nerah 

Herself  had  a   daughter  full   grown, 
And  reared  in  the  faith  of  old  Terah 
Well  burgeoned  the  seed  that  was  sown, 
And  Asenath  grew 
Both  faithful  and  true, 
Her  mother's  strong  faith  was  her  own. 

10 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Potipherah  and  his  younger  brother, 

Called   Potiphar,  chief  of  the  guard, 
Were  strongly  attached  to  each  other 
In  friendship  that  never  was  marred; 
And  year  after  year 
Their  houses  stood  near, 
In  truth  they  both  stood  in  one  yard. 

The  maid  and  her  beautiful  mother 
Were  often  with  Potiphar's  wife, 
The  women  grew  near  to  each  other 
And  lived  without  envy  or  strife; 
Unclouded  their  sky 
As  moments  rolled  by, 
And  calm  and  contented  their  life. 

As  time  was  thus  passing  unheeded 

And  turning  old  months  into  new, 
It  happened  that  Potiphar  needed 
A  servant  trustworthy  and  true, 
And  Asenath  said, 
Ere  many  days  sped 
She'd  find  him  a  man  that  would  do. 

She   knew   not  the  burden   of  sorrow 
Her  little  hands  quickly  would  lift, 
She  reckoned  not  that  on  the  morrow 
Her  hands  would  confer  a  great  gift 
On  one  who  was  sad, 
A  poor  captive  lad, 
And  rend  his  dark  sky  with  a  rift. 

II 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

There  came  to  their  home  in  the  morning 

Some  wandering  sons  of  the  plain, 
"Who  kindness  and  tenderness  scorning 
Sold  men  as  if  cattle  for  gain, 
Unheeding   their   cries 
Their  tears  and  their  sighs, 
And  recked  not  and  stopped  not  at  pain. 

Dust-covered  from  many  days'  faring, 

They  offered  to  barter  for  gold 
A  youth  all  but  princely  in  bearing 
And  more  than  heroic  in  mold; 
Of  beauty  divine, 
Expression  benign, 
He  passed  to  the  mart  to  be  sold. 

The  maiden  requested  permission 
To  question  the  beautiful  youth 
And  learn  for  herself  his  position 
Regarding  the  subject  of  truth, 
But  questioned  in  vain 
For  soon  it  was  plain 
He  knew  not  her  language,  in  sooth. 

She  questioned  him  then  in  Chaldean 

And  found  to  her  joyful  surprise 
That  tongue  and  the  old  Aramean 
Used  fluently  in  his  replies, 
And  ably  the  youth 
Discoursed  upon  truth, 
And  showed  himself  prudent  and  wise. 

12 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Then  privately  she  and  her  mother 

Communed  with  the  stranger  apart, 
\Vho  there  as  they  talked  to  each  other 
Revealed  all  the  thoughts  of  his  heart, 
With  sobs  and  with  tears 
They  talked  of  old  years, 
Down  there  by  the  slave-dealers'  mart. 

Then  back  to  the  rovers  they  hasted 
And  paid  for  the  captive  in  gold, 
And  then  not  a  moment  they  wasted 
Till  all  of  his  story  was  told, 
Then  kissed  they  the  lad 
And  all  were  made  glad, 
There  where  the  young  captive  was  sold. 

And  Potiphar's  troubles  were  over, 

His  woes  were  thus  brought  to  an  end, 
The  lad  that  he  bought  from  the  rover 
Became  both  his  servant  and  friend; 
And  Potiphar  knew 
One  faithful  and  true 
On  whom  he  could  safely  depend. 

The  story  the  stranger  related 

Though  briefly  and  hastily  told 
While  slave-dealing  Tshmaelites  waited 
To  gather  their  harvest  of  gold, 
Was  heard  with  surprise 
And  tear-bedimmed  eyes, 
A  tale  of  his  fathers  of  old. 

13 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

He  told  the  young  maiden  and  Nerah 

His  father  and  mother  were  true 
Descendants  direct  from  old  Terah 
And  no  other  faith  ever  knew, 
Wherever  they  trod, 
Than  faith  in  his  God, 
In  God  and  his  promises  too. 

His  mother  was  Nerah's  own  sister, 

Though  this  the  youth  then  did  not  know, 
His  father  had  met  her  and  kissed  her 
In  youth,  in  the  long,  long  ago, 
Had  bought  her  with  tears 
And  labor  of  years. 
Down  where  the  Chaldean  streams  flow. 


And  now  on  the  Canaanite  mountains 

And  over  the  valley  and  plain 
His  flocks  came  to  drink  at  the  fountains 
And  fed  on  the  pastures  and  grain, 
But  loss  of  his  wife 
Had  saddened  his  life, 
And  wealth  brought  its  treasures  in  vain. 

But  basely  and  heartlessly  taken 
Away  from  his  father  and  sold 
The  lad  seemed  forlorn  and  forsaken 
And  wept  as  the  story  he  told, 
But  banished  his  fears, 
His  grief  and  his  tears 
When  bought  with  his  kinswoman's  gold. 

14 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

And  Nerah  then  hastily  told  him 

That  she  was  old  Laban's  lost  child, 
That  kindly  her  arms  would  enfold  him, 
And  said  in  tones  gentle  and  mild 
That  Israel's  Guide 
Would  walk  by  his  side 
While  he  kept  his  ways  undefiled. 

The  Hebrew,  the  maid  and  her  mother 

Communed  for  a  time  all  alone, 
And  strengthened  the  faith  of  each  other 
In  Israel's  God  and  their  own, 
With  infinite  joy 
Unmixed  with  alloy 
They  thanked  him  for  kindnesses  shown. 

Then  Nerah  said  God  would  deliver 
The  youth  from  his  service  in  time, 
Her  faith  in  the  Infinite  Giver 
Was  boundless,  unshaken,  sublime, 
His  travail  for  truth 
Might  come  to  the  youth 
When  young,  or  might  come  in  his  prime. 

If  God  ever  graciously  blessed  him 
As  all  of  his  fathers  were  blessed 
Then  God  in  his  own  time  would  test  him 
With  tests  he  applied  to  the  best, 
But  now  in  the  strife 
And  battle  of  life 
He  bravely  must  wait  for  the  test. 

15 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Now  humbly  discharging  his  duty, 
Obscure  or  despised  he  must  go, 
Shut  out  from  earth's  glory  and  beauty 
Denial  and  toil  he  must  know, 
But  there  in  his  toil, 
In  strife  and  turmoil, 
A  greater  than  Pharaoh  might  grow. 

Years  passed  and  the  ties  were  unbroken, 
The  maid  and  the  lad  were  both  grown, 
And  sweet,  tender  vows  had  been  spoken 
As  years  had  so  happily  flown, 
The  older  they  grew 
The  better  they  knew 
The  Jahveh  their  fathers  had  known. 

Most  precious  and  helpful  to  Nerah, 
The  Hebrew  was  part  of  her  life, 
A  Nestor  to  old  Potipherah 

He  stayed  him  in  seasons  of  strife, 
And,  faultless  and  free, 
He  came  thus  to  be 
The  idol  of  Potiphar's  wife. 

Her  standard  of  moral  uprightness 

Was  not  very  high  at  the  best, 
And  often  impelled  by  her  lightness 
A  sinful  proposal  she  pressed 
Upon  the  fair  youth 
Who  lived  for  the  truth 
And  spurned  her  imprudent  request. 

16 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

And  once  she  so  strongly  persisted 

And  held  to  his  garment  and  plead, 
That  when  he  so  wisely  resisted, 
Abandoned  his  garment  and  fled, 
She,  being  thus  spurned, 
Maliciously  turned 
And  sought  his  destruction  instead. 

She  made  up  a  false  accusation 

And  charged  the  young  Hebrew  with  crime, 
And,  being  above  him  in  station, 
His  death  was  but  matter  of  time, 
And  thus  was  the  youth, 
Whose  life  was  a  truth, 
To  perish  ere  reaching  his  prime. 

But  man  in  his  folly  proposes 

And  fits  on  his  temples  a  crown, 
And  God  in  his  wisdom  disposes, 
And  man's  earthly  castles  go  down ; 
And  thus  a  fair  maid 
Such  wild  havoc  played 
With  Potiphar's  wife's  deadly  frown. 

The  maiden  was  playfully  hidden, 

Concealed  by  a  curtain  or  bed, 
And  thus  she  was  present  unbidden 
And  heard  every  word  that  was  said, 
She  saw  the  brave  youth 
Stand  up  for  the  truth 
And  follow  where  probity  led. 

17 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

The  court  at  the  examination 

Allowed  the  fair  maid  to  appear, 
But  held  that  the  corroboration 
Was  not  yet  sufficiently  clear; 
And  forthwith  the  court, 
So  says  the  report, 
Passed  sentence  for  many  a  year. 

Though  saved  from  destruction,  still  Nerah 

Was  anxious  to  set  the  lad  free, 
And  quickly  induced  Potipherah 
In  all  of  her  plans  to  agree, 
And  forthwith  applied 
To  have  the  case  tried 
Where  judges  would  hear  a  just  plea. 

When  many  a  sun  had  arisen 

The  lawyers  still  fought  for  delay, 
The  Hebrew  still  languished  in  prison 
And  hope  almost  vanished  away, 
Wrhen  days  grew  to  years 
Mid  sadness  and  tears 
Then  faith  turned  their  night  into  day. 

One  night  as  the  maiden  lay  sleeping, 

An  angel  appeared  to  her  there 
And  told  her  that  vain  was  her  weeping, 
While  God  in  his  tenderest  care 
Would  guide  the  fair  youth 
Through  ways  of  all  truth 
And  she  in  his  glory  would  share. 

18 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

That  man  in  his  blindness  and  weakness 

Has  only  to  follow  his  guide, 
Obeying  in  kindness  and  meekness 
The  teaching  that  God  has  supplied, 
That  God  in  his  might 
Would  guide  him  aright 
If  man  in  true  faith  would  abide. 


That  service  and  honor  and  glory 

Would  come  to  the  lad  all  his  days, 
That  earth  would  resound  with  his  story 
And  nations  would  honor  and  praise 
The  Israelite  youth 
Who  stood  for  the  truth 
Delighting  to  walk  in  its  ways. 

The  women  then  sweetly  confided 

Their  ways  unto  Israel's  God 
Who  gently  and  patiently  guided 

Their  feet  where  their  fathers  had  trod, 
And  then  many  days 
They  walked  in  his  ways 
And  meekly  passed  under  the  rod. 

Then  pausing1,  the  man  from  the  wady, 

Who  later  we  learned  was  a  Scot, 
Requested  a  small  glass  of  toddy 
And  seemed  to  prefer  it  quite  hot; 
Resuming,  he  said 
The  portion  just  read 
Was  chosen  by  chance  on  the  spot. 

19 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Another  part  lately  translated 

Pertained  to  a  more  recent  date, 
And  told  us  a  story,  lie  stated, 
Relating  to  Israel's  fate, 
A  tale  of  romance 
Which  brought  by  mere  chance 
Great  blessings  to  Pharaoh's  old  state. 

And  when  we  insistently  pleaded, 

Though  fearing  that  nought  would  avail, 
The  Scot  very  kindly  proceeded 
To  read  the  romantic  old  tale 
Made  up  of  reports 
From  Pharaoh's  old  courts, 
Authentic  in  every  detail. 

A  youth  of  remarkable  beauty, 

Unusual  kindness  of  heart, 
Heroic  devotion  to  duty, 

And  practiced  somewhat  in  each  art, 
Was  falsely  accused 
And  sorely  misused 
And  put  in  the  prison  apart. 

He  quickly  attracted  the  keeper; 
His  spirit,  so  free  and  so  kind, 
Impressed  itself  deeper  and  deeper, 
His  noble  and  generous  mind 
Broke  barriers  away, 
Established  its  sway, 
And  triumphed  where  grossly  maligned. 

20 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Ere  long  the  fair  youth  had  arisen, 

Promoted,  the  chronicle  said, 
And  placed  over  all  in  the  prison, 
Almost  the  executive  head, 
While  keeper  and  kept 
In  confidence  slept, 
And   days  and   nights  joyfully  sped. 

One  day  there  arrived  at  the  prison 

A  lovely,  a  beautiful  boy, 
Another  bright  star  had  arisen 
Diffusing  new  light  and  new  joy; 
He  bore  on  his  ring 
The  seal  of  the  king 
And  seemed  without  spot  or  alloy. 

So  pure  and  so  fair  his  complexion, 
So  lustrous  and  dreamy  his  eyes, 
His  manners  refined  to  perfection, 
He  seemed  so  surpassingly  wise, 
A  fountain  of  light 
By  day  and  by  night, 
He  seemed  as  one  born  in  the  skies. 

Almost  fully  grown  and  well  rounded, 
His  face  seemed  mature  in  each  line, 
His  voice  in  sweet  cadence  abounded, 
His  bearing  appeared  quite  divine ; 
With  vision  so  fair 
A  visitor  there, 
No  prisoner  need  to  repine. 

21 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

The  boy  with  a  tender  persistence 

Endeavored  to  cling  to  the  youth, 
But  he  kept  the  hoy  at  a  distance, 
Though  gently  and  kindly,  in  truth ; 
lie  held  him  at  hay, 
As  children  at  play, 
Without  any  semblance  of  ruth. 

When  moon  after  moon  had  arisen 

And  sweetly  the  moments  gone  by, 
The  boy  lingered  on  in  the  prison 
With  never  a  grief  or  a  sigh, 
The  youth  and  the  boy 
Brought  brightness  and  joy, 
And  beauty  bloomed  while  they  were  nigh. 

One  night  there  was  heard  a  commotion 

As  if  a  wild  storm  rent  the  sky, 
As  if  on  the  tempest-wracked  ocean 
The  god  of  destruction  rode  by, 
With  threatening  roar 
It  swept  to  the  door 
With  shouts  that  the  guilty  should  die. 

Still  on  the  marauders  came  sweeping, 

Disturbing  the  stillness  of  night, 
To  where  the  young  Hebrew  was  sleeping 
And  dreaming  of  scenes  of  delight, 
They  burst  down  the  door, 
They  paused  on  the  floor, 
But  only  the  youth  was  in  sight. 

22 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

"Search  on,"  cried  the  leader,  confounded, 

"Search  on  till  the  culprit  is  found, 
And,  men,  keep  the  prison  surrounded, 
And  see  that  the  Hebrew  is  bound; 
This  ignoble  strife 
Will  cost  him  his  life," 
And  darkly  the  officer  frowned. 

There  where  the  young  Hebrew  was  lying 

Bound  hand  and  foot  there  on  the  bed, 
While  sadly  his  father  was  sighing 
And  mourning  his  Joseph  as  dead, 
With  foreboding  fears 
With  sobs  and  with  tears, 
The  handsome  Egyptian  was  led. 

There  where  the  young  Hebrew  was  lying, 

The  officer's  keen  weapon  sped, 
The  fair  young  Egyptian  was  dying, 
There  blood  by  a  husband  was  shed, 
And  Potiphar's  wife 
Surrendered  her  life 
For  passions  her  folly  had  bred. 

While  hotly  his  anger  was  burning 

He  turned  where  the  young  Hebrew  lay, 
He  turned,  but  in  vain  was  his  turning, 
The  king's  baker  stood  in  the  way, 
Whose  weapon  sped  well 
And  Potiphar  fell 
And  perished  himself  in  the  fray. 

23 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Then  out  by  the  desolate  wady 

They  dug  in  the  desert  a  tomb, 
And  buried  there  Potiphar's  body 
Within  the  deep  shadows  and  gloom ; 
And  Potiphar  slept 
While  Israel  wept, 
And  Pharaohs  went  on  to  their  doom. 

The  parchment  was  greatly  extended, 

The  cloth  being  partly  removed, 
And  later  events  were  appended, 
As  further  inquiry  had  proved, 
As  centuries  sped 
That  tale  of  the  dead 
Grew  longer  whene'er  it  behooved. 

Thus  out  by  the  desolate  wady 
Our  genial  and  erudite  friend 
Recovered  with  Potiphar's  body 
A  storehouse  of  lore  without  end, 
The  oaths  and  reports, 
The  records  of  courts 
On  which  the  whole  world  could  depend. 

One  Setis,  a  mighty  Egyptian, 

Who  sometimes  was  given  to  strife 
And  baseness  of  every  description, 
A  brother  of  Potiphar's  wife, 
Now  entered  the  race 
For  Potiphar's  place 
And  soon  was  appointed  for  life. 

24 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Unprincipled,  genial  and  charming, 

His  counsel  was  sought  by  the  great, 
And  conquering  foes  by  disarming 
He  came  to  great  power  in  the  state, 
And  entered  the  race 
For  Potiphar's  place 
For  reasons  I  now  shall  relate. 

Quite  often  in  Potiphar's  dwelling, 
As  years  had  passed  wearily  by, 
Young  Setis'  affection  was  welling 
And  causing  him  vainly  to  sigh, 
But  all  was  for  nought, 
For  vainly  he  sought 
The  maid  when  the  Hebrew  was  nigh. 

All  vainly  his  power  he  pleaded, 

His  friends  and  his  place  in  the  state, 
His  passion  and  all  were  unheeded, 
His  name  with  the  proud  and  the  great, 
For  noble  and  good 
Fair  Asenath  stood 
United  with  Israel's  fate. 


He  pleaded  his  passion  with  Nerah, 
Souuht  vainly  to  purchase  her  aid, 
He  pleaded  with  old  Potipherah 
And  numberless  overtures  made, 
But  nought  would  avail, 
He  tried  but  to  fail, 
Then  schemings  far  deeper  were  laid. 

25 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

He  saw  thus  in  spite  of  his  scheming 

His  long  cherished  hope  rendered  void, 
And  though  undisturbed  in  the  seeming 
Most  grievously  he  was  annoyed 
And  vowed  not  to  fail ; 
One  thing  would  avail, 
The  Israelite  must  be  destroyed. 

To  Setis  was  due  the  inception 

Of  legalized  murder  and  strife, 
Of  cruel  and  wicked  deception 
Attempted  by  Potiphar's  wife, 
He   sought  to  destroy 
The  Israelite  boy, 
To  rob  him  of  lover  and  life. 


He  constantly  sought  for  occasion 
Through  villainous  legerdemain, 
Through  treacherous,  artful  evasion 
His  murderous  purpose  to  gain, 
No  bribes  would  avail, 
He  sought  but  to  fail, 
He  made  every  effort  in  vain. 

When  Potiphar  finally  perished, 

He  quietly  bided  his  time, 
Well  knowing  the  hopes  he  had  cherished 
Would  presently  come  to  their  prime, 
And  winning  the  race 
For  Potiphar's  place 
Would  help  him  to  cover  the  crime. 

26 


If  he  could  but  manage  to  cover 

The  part  that  he  took  in  the  deed 
The  maiden  bereft  of  her  lover 

His  own  ardent  wooing  would  heed, 
No  more  in  distress 
His  cause  he  would  press, 
But  warmly,  successfully  plead. 

Then  Setis  selected  a  keeper 

On  whom  he  could  safely  rely, 
And  carried  his  scheming  still  deeper, 
Determined  the  Hebrew  should  die, 
He  shortly  should  feel 
The  piercing  of  steel 
And  fettered  in  iron  should  lie. 

A  helot,  a  man  of  discretion, 

By  nature  repulsive  and  cold, 
Who  butchered  men  as  a  profession 
And  infants  in  arms,  we  are  told, 
Was  called  to  their  aid 
And  lavishly  paid 
To  murder  the  Hebrew  for  gold. 

His  presence  was  quickly  detected, 
The  prisoners,  Hebrew  and  all, 
His  sinister  purpose  suspected 

But  knew  not  where  evil  would  fall; 
They  fashioned  a  plan 
That  bound  every  man 
To  muster  on  hearing  a  call. 

27 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

When  Asenath  sadly  was  weeping 

At  midnight  when  stars  lit  the  sky, 
When  all  in  the  prison  were  sleeping 
As  silently  time  drifted  by, 
There  rose  on  the  air 
A  wail  of  despair, 
A  plaintive,  a  piteous  cry. 

The  prisoners  came  in  their  fury 

And  instantly  broke  in  the  door, 
And  there  without  justice  or  jury 
They  slaughtered  the  two  on  the  floor, 
The  old  records  tell 
The  helot  first  fell, 
The  keeper  then  weltered  in  gore. 

Then  tenderly,  quickly  withdrawing 

The  steel  that  had  pierced  to  the  bone. 
And  patiently,  painfully  sawing 
The  iron  that  fettered  him  prone, 
They  rescued  again 
The  purest  of  men, 
The  peer  of  the  King  on  his  throne. 

No  longer  in  byways  of  duty 
The  buffeted  victim  of  fate, 
But  clothed  in  all  honor  and  beauty, 
The  peer  of  the  proud  and  the  great, 
Commended  and  praised, 
The  Hebrew  was  raised 
For  services  rendered  the  state. 

28 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

And  known  as  the  Hebrew  no  longer 
But  courteously  called  by  his  name, 
Young  Joseph  grew  stronger  and  stronger 
As  honors  and  eminence  came; 
And  faithful  and  true 
More  mighty  he  grew, 
Till  nations  soon  heard  of  his  fame. 

The  Hebrew,  exalted  in  station, 

And  just  in  the  prime  of  his  life, 
Unconsciously  plunged  the  whole  nation 
In  friendly  and  generous  strife; 
The  King  and  the  court, 
So  says  the  report, 
Desired  to  choose  him  a  wife. 


The  council  at  most  recommended, 

Appointments  were  made  by  the  King, 
All  things  on  the  monarch  depended 
His  stamp  and  the  seal  of  his  ring, 
But  when  he  approved 
The  law  stood  unmoved, 
By  all  that  the  nation  could  bring. 

Like  laws  of  the  Medes  and  the  Persians 

The  word  of  the  monarch  must  stand, 
No  logical,  legal  incursions 

Could  wrest  divine  right  from  his  hand, 
No  law  was  revoked 
In  council  convoked, 
His  word  was  the  law  of  the  land. 

29 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

It  chanced  at  the  time  of  our  story, 

The  courtiers  both  gay  and  sedate, 
When  Joseph  was  come  to  his  glory 
Were  neither  too  good  nor  too  great 
To  seek  their  own  end 
Then  falsely  pretend 
They  sought  but  the  good  of  the  state. 

And  standing  still  closer  together 

A  circle,  a  powerful  few, 
Who  strengthened  themselves  with  a  tether 
And  swore  to  their  band  to  be  true, 
Secured  the  King's  ear, 
And  thus  without  fear 
Could  carry  their  selfish  plans  through. 

And  foremost  among  the  false  leaders 

Was  Setis,  as  false  as  the  rest, 
The  shrewdest  of  all  the  false  pleaders 
His  pleading  he  cogently  pressed, 
And  shrewdly  he  wrought 
The  purpose  he  sought 
And  rarely  a  failure  confessed. 

With  subtilty  Setis  incited 

This  circle  to  say  to  the  King 
That  they  had  been  lately  invited 
A  suitable  lady  to  bring, 

And  having  thus  wrought 
They  loyally  sought 
His  stamp  and  the  seal  of  his  ring. 

30 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

This  jugglery  being  effected, 

The  King  having  lent  them  his  aid, 
The  scheming  cabal,  unsuspected, 
Their  game  being  skillfully  played, 
Declared  by  decree 
The  nuptials  should  be 
No  longer  than  three  days  delayed. 

The  lady  the  courtiers  selected, 

Though  young  and  as  fair  as  a  queen, 
Was  worthy  and  highly  respected, 
Intelligent,  genial,  serene, 
And  bright  as  the  day 
When  blossoming  May 
Is  decked  in  her  garlands  of  green. 

They  brought  her  in  all  of  her  beauty, 

When  gladsome  and  sweet  was  her  voice,   . 
Regardless  of  Joseph's  great  duty, 
Neglecting  the  maid  of  his  choice, 
And  by  a  decree 
This  false  coterie 
Enjoined  them  to  wed  and  rejoice. 

Three  days  of  disturbed  preparation, 

How  mournfully,  sadly  they  fled, 
Three  days  of  extreme  perturbation, 
How  painfully,  quickly  they  sped; 
The  victim  of  fate, 
Compelled  by  the  state, 
The  viceroy  of  Egypt  must  wed. 

3' 


The  night  was  ablaze  with  the  function 

Attended  by   Egypt's  elite, 
The  time  had  arrived  for  the  unction ; 
The  nuptials  were  almost  complete 
When  passing  the  door 
Amid  an  uproar 
A  lawyer  pressed  in  from  the  street. 

He  quickly  suspended  the  function 

By  fearlessly  waving  his  hand, 
He  read  to  the  priest  an  injunction 
Approved  as  the  law  of  the  land, 
A  herald  was  sought, 
A  notary  brought, 
And  witnesses  called  to  the  stand. 


The  lawyer  unfolded  a  story 

Begun  in  misdeeds  and  deceit 
Ere  Joseph  had  come  to  his  glory, 
Developed  and  almost  complete, 
Of  villainous  crime 
Then  come  to  its  prime 
Which  it  was  his  aim  to  defeat. 


The  transcripts  and  all  affirmations 

The  proofs  in  the  case  would  demand, 
Decisions  and  all  confirmations 
And  witnesses  all  were  at  hand. 
If  contest  were  made 
Or  answer  delayed 
The  present  injunction  must  stand. 

32 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

The  story  the  lawyer  recited 

That  night  to  the  young  and  the  fair, 
The  bride  elect  being  affrighted 
As  crime  after  crime  was  laid  bare, 
I  now  shall  unfold, 
Save  what  has  been  told, 
Though  he  told  the  whole  of  it  there. 

He  told  them  of  Setis'  relation, 
To  efforts  of  Potiphar's  wife 
To  blacken  the  fair  reputation 
And  even  to  threaten  the  life 
Of  Joseph,  the  youth 
Who  lived  for  the  truth 
And  knew  not  and  thought  not  of  strife. 

Of  Setis'  undying  affection 

So  often  declared  to  the  maid, 
Of  Asenath's  constant  rejection, 
He  told  the  part  Setis  had  played 
When  keeper  and  knave, 
The  murderous  slave, 
The  Hebrew's  destruction  assayed. 

He  showed  that  at  his  instigation 

The  secret  cabal  had  agreed 
To  all  the  misrepresentation 

That  led  the  good  King  to  proceed 
In  haste  to  approve 
Their  villainous  move 
And  sanction  what  they  had  decreed. 

33 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

To  win  the  fair  daughter  of  Nerah 

He  cozzened  the  small  and  the  great, 
To  circumvent  old  Potipherah, 

He  used  the  whole  power  of  the  state, 
He  plainly  had  said 
If  Joseph  were  wed 
He  quickly  would  settle  his  fate. 

With  calmness  and  determination 

The  lawyer  then  covered  his  ground, 
And  showed  in  a  long  explanation 
That  evidence  recently  found 
Affected  his  cause, 
Repealed  some  old  laws 
And  made  Joseph's  marriage  unsound. 

He  said  as  an  active  attorney 

Sometimes  with  the  lowly  he  wept, 
And  often  had  gone  on  a  journey 
To  where  the  young  Joseph  was  kept, 
And  sometimes  he  stayed, 
By  business  delayed, 
And  oft  in  the  prison  had  slept. 

While  there  he  had  met  an  assistant 

Once  trusted  in  Potiphar's  home, 
Who,  though  rather  formal  and  distant, 
Was  trusted  from  basement  to  dome, 
And,  lowly  in  birth, 
Was  loved  for  his  worth 
From  dawn  till  the  falling  of  gloam. 

34 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

At  length  this  old  man  had  arisen 

Till  day  and  night  safely  he  kept 
The  records  and  keys  of  the  prison, 
And  oft  while  the  prisoners  slept 
By  glimmering  light 
He  read  through  the  night, 
Then  softly  to  slumber  he  crept. 

The  records  then  in  his  possession, 

Kept  safe  from  the  damp  and  the  mould, 
Held  many  a  secret  confession 
That  never  to  man  had  been  told, 
And  safely  concealed 
Were  never  revealed 
For  payment  of  silver  or  gold. 

Dark  deeds  were  held  safe  in  their  keeping, 

Too  bloody  and  baleful  to  tell, 
Deeds  burdened  with  sorrow  and  weeping, 
The  shroud  and  the  funeral  knell, 
The  keeper  well  knew 
Should  he  prove  untrue 
His  story  that  record  would  swell. 

So  well  were  the  records  protected, 
So  safely  these  relics  concealed, 
That  torture  or  death  was  expected 
By  those  who  their  secrets  revealed; 
This  law  of  the  land. 
Long  destined  to  stand, 
Had  never  been  changed  or  repealed. 

35 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

From  Joseph  this  aged  assistant 

Had  heard  of  the  Israelite  God, 
And  faithful  and  true  and  consistent 
In  wisdom's  fair  pathway  he  trod, 
And  out  of  this  way 
He  never  would  stray 
But  ever  straight  onward  he  plod. 

He  knew  the  fair  maiden  and  Nerah 

And  often  had  eaten  their  bread ; 
Ofttimes  to  the  daughters  of  Terah 
For  comfort  and  strength  he  had  fled, 
And  often  he  prayed 
That  yet  he  might  aid 
The  maiden  and  Joseph  to  wed. 

He  lately  came  into  possession 

Of  facts  which  a  lawyer  had  told 
When  making  a  dying  confession 
Then  almost  a  century  old, 
That  made  a  law  void 
When  fraud  was  employed 
Or  courtiers  corrupted  with  gold. 

These  facts  appertained  to  decisions 

The  courtiers  and  King  had  suppressed, 
And  hence  to  the  divers  misprisions 

W'here  courtiers  and  King  had  transgressed, 
Which  facts,  brought  to  light, 
Impaired  Divine  right 
Where  bribing  or  fraud  was  confessed. 

36 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

These  facts  had  been  fully  attested, 

The  evidence  all  was  at  hand, 
Collateral  facts  were  digested, 
The  jurists'  decision  must  stand, 
Decrees  were  made  void 
When  fraud  was  employed, 
This  law  was  the  law  of  the  land. 

Three  days  since  a  courtier's  confession 

Was  made  in  the  prison  alone, 
And  then  in  the  lawyer's  possession, 
In  which  the  false  courtier  had  shown 
That  their  coterie 
Had  framed  the  decree 
Where  fraud  and  collusion  were  known. 


When  thus  the  religious  old  keeper 

Saw  Setis  engendering  strife 
And  laying  plots  deeper  and  deeper 
To  get  the  young  maid  for  a  wife, 
He  straightway  revealed 
What  should  be  concealed 
And  thereby  endangered  his  life. 

He  went  to  the  maiden  and  Nerah, 

Friends  truest  when  danger  was  nigh, 
Consulted  the  priest  Potipherah, 
And  then  without  tremor  or  sigh 
The  secrets  betrayed, 
Then  told  the  fair  maid 
For  Joseph  and  her  he  would  die. 

37 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

And  while  the  old  man  was  beheaded 

And  suffered  a  true  martyr's  fate 
To  save  her  from  being  thus  wedded 
To  one  most  ignoble  but  great, 
Fair  Asenath  sought 
The  lawyer  who  brought 
An  action  enjoining  the  state. 

His  sympathy  soon  was  enlisted 

And  quickly  he  came  to  her  aid, 
And  faithfully,  nobly  persisted 

Till  searches  and  transcripts  were  made; 
Three  strenuous  days 
In  numberless  ways 
His  zeal  in  her  case  was  displayed. 

The  evidence  all  was  submitted, 
The  argument  finally  closed, 
Moreover,  as  greatly  befitted, 
The  villain  was  fully  exposed, 
The  victims  were  spared, 
The  guests  were  prepared 
For  scenes  that  were  quickly  transposed. 

The  color  had  suddenly  faded 
From  Setis'  intelligent  face, 
And  quickly  deposed  and  degraded 
With  all  his  cabal  in  disgrace 
He  entered  once  more 
His  own  prison  door 
But  went  to  a  criminal's  place. 

38 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

The  maid  the  cabal  had  selected 

To  be  a  compulsory  bride 
Was  neither  chagrined  nor  dejected 
When  suddenly  cast  to  one  side, 
But  quickly  displayed 
Regret  for  the  maid 
Whose  faith  had  so  sorely  been  tried. 

And  then  she  so  kindly  requested 

That  Asenath  quickly  be  brought, 
Whose  love  was  so  cruelly  tested, 
Her  plighted  vow  so  set  at  nought, 
That  there  in  their  sight 
Her  wrongs  be  set  right 
Ere  further  woes  haply  be  wrought. 

Mid  visions  of  beauty  and  splendor 

Where  Nerah's  sweet  daughter  was  led, 
Mid  hearts  that  were  loving  and  tender, 
With  blessings  invoked  on  his  head 
To  Asenath  there 
So  lovely  and  fair 
The  viceroy  of  Egypt  was  wed. 

Then  hearing  his  burden  of  duty, 

Wherever  was  sorrow  or  sigh, 
The  herald  of  sweetness  and  beauty, 
The  friend  of  the  low  and  the  high, 
Again  and  again 
This  man  among  men 
All  happy  and  helpful  went  by. 

39 


Triumphantly,  faithfully,  Nerah 

And  Asenath  patiently  trod 
The  path  that  the  children  of  Terah 
Had  walked  in  the  ways  of  their  God, 
In  ways  that  were  new, 
As  faithful  and  true 
As  when  they  passed  under  the  rod. 


40 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


WITCHAIRE  AND  MATILDE. 
(From  The  Romance  of  History.) 

Across  the  frontier  into  Brittany  faring, 

Some  time  in  the  autumn,  eight  hundred  eighteen 
Where  Morvan  his  army  for  war  was  preparing, 
A  party  of  bold  Prankish  horsemen  were  seen, 
Their  leader,  Witchaire, 
Was  sturdy  and  fair, 
His  character  noble,  his  temper  serene. 

Their  progress  was  stopped  by  the  interposition 

Of  forest  and  jungle,  and  river,  and  brake, 
The  country,  so  primitive  in  its  condition 

That  steel-armored  troopers  no  progress  could  make, 
Was  covered  with  logs 
And  treacherous  bogs, 
With  hidden  canals  or  a  half  hidden  lake. 

Dismounting  and  saying,  "Farewell  till  the  morrow!" 
Witchaire  bade  his  men  to  encamp  where  they  stood, 
And  fearing  his  quest  would  end  only  in  sorrow 
He  silently  started  alone  through  the  wood; 
On  through  his  demesne 
He  sped  to  the  scene 
Where  he  was  to  win  back  a  king  if  he  could. 

41 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Count  Morvan  of  Brittany,  lately  elected 

As  king  by  the  Bretons,  had  rashly  rebelled, 
All  offers  of  pardon  from  Louis  rejected, 

His  strongholds  and  castles  had  stubbornly  held; 
Infirm  as  the  wave 
And  fatally  brave, 
With  hope  and  ambition  his  heart  proudly  swelled. 

Revolt  of  these  wandering  sons  of  the  ocean 

Appeared  to  the  nations  no  less  than  insane; 
Unstable  and  wrathful  and  swept  by  emotion, 

The  Bretons  seemed  destined  to  suffer  in  vain, 
Hence  Le  Debonnaire 
Commissioned  Witchaire 
To  strive  once  again  Morvan's  friendship  to  gain. 

At  length  after  labors  and  dangers  unnumbered 

In  grass-covered  lake  where  the  waters  were  still, 
In  quicksand  and  bog  with  his  armor  encumbered, 
On  slippery  banks  of  a  half  covered  rill, 
He  crossed  a  deep  ford 
Where  swift  waters  roared 
And  tested  his  quickness,  his  strength  and  his  skill. 

A  sentinel  challenged  him  promptly  on  landing 

And  blew  on  his  clarion  a  blast  short  and  shrill, 
When  answer  came  back  where  the  envoy  was  standing 
There  near  by  the  stream  on  a  small,  sloping  hill, 
From  dozens  of  posts 
Where  gathered  the  hosts 
Of  brave,  sturdy  Bretons  for  practice  and  drill. 

42 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Witchaire  saw  a  scene  of  such  unwonted  bustle 

He  seemed  quite  uncertain  it  was  not  a  dream ; 
Where  softly  the  sound  of  the  woods'  gentle  rustle 
Brought  music  in  whispers  to  mountain  and  stream, 
The  clarion's  blast 
Grew  harsh  as  it  passed 
And  brightly  the  sun  set  the  armor  agleam. 

A   circular  plain   that   was  widely   extended 

Surrounded  the  spot  where  the  lone  castle  stood; 
By  natural  works  it  was  strongly  defended, 
Canals,  boggy  marshes,  a  river,  a  wood, 
Some  hills  lying  near, 
A  space  that  was  clear 
Combined  in  defenses  substantial  and  good. 

Witchaire,  as  the  beautiful  scene  lay  before  him, 

Remembered  that  oft  in  the  night  still  and  clear, 
When  soft  swelling  sounds  in  a  chorus  stole  o'er  him 
And  fell  like  a  sweet  serenade  on  his  ear, 
He  walked  with  Matilde 
Through  meadow  and  field, 
And  earth  seemed  a  paradise  when  she  was  near. 

A  deer  from  the  neighboring  hills  lightly  bounding 

To  drink  in  the  moonlight  or  feed  in  the  field, 
The  shepherd's  rude  pipe  on  the  hills  softly  sounding 
To  frighten  the  wolves  and  his  younglings  to  shield, 
The  mellowing  power 
And  charm  of  the  hour, 
And  more  than  they  all — by  his  side  was  Matilde. 

43 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Upon  the  charmed  senses  the  music  came  stealing, 

And  calmly  the  lakelets  lay  under  the  skies, 
The  moonlight  came  softly,  and  tender  the  feeling 

That  swelled  in  his  heart  when  he  looked  in  her  eyes, 
1  Her  footsteps  were  slow, 

Her  voice  soft  and  low, 
And  heart  spoke  to  heart  with  a  joyous  surprise. 

For  one  fleeting  moment  such  was  the  fair  vision 

That  filled  the  mind's  eye  of  the  envoy  of  France, 
A  picture  that  seemed  beatific,  Elysian ; 
Next  moment  he  started  as  if  from  a  trance, 
And,  rubbing  his  eyes, 
He  saw  with  surprise 
The  flashing  of  armor  and  buckler  and  lance. 

There  stood,  gaunt  and  grim,  black  with  age,  but  not  shat- 
tered, 

The  Breton  King's  seat  in  the  midst  of  the  plain, 
While  all  the  known  warlike  defenses  were  scattered 
With  soldier-like  prudence  his  purpose  to  gain, 
Immense  walls  of  stone, 
And  drawbridges  thrown, 
So  placed  that  their  foes  should  attack  them  in  vain. 

Embankments,   and   mounds   made   of   stones   rough   and 

jagged, 

The  lakelets  connected  by  moats  wide  and  deep, 
And  grim  looking  hedges  with  horrid  thorns  shagged 
Surrounded  the  castle,  the  tower  and  keep; 
In  bristling  array 
The  black  castle  lay 
A  wild  beast  of  prey  just  aroused  from  its  sleep. 

44 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

The  arms  of  the  men  in  the  sunlight  were  glancing, 

While  drilling  in  various  parts  of  the  field, 
And  proudly  the  cavaliers'  horses  were  prancing 

As  gaily  they  countermarched,  galloped  and  wheeled ; 
The  martial  array, 
Imposing  and  gay, 
Seemed  plainly  to  show  that  the  King  would  not  yield. 

The  scene  was  so  warlike  and  grandly  inspiring 
Witchaire's  martial  spirit  was  visibly  stirred, 
And  while  the  array  he  was  greatly  admiring 
He  mounted  and  off  with  his  escort  he  spurred, 
And  speeding  away 
At  close  of  the  day, 
The  sentinel's  challenge  at  intervals  heard. 

Where  Morvan  and  some  of  his  chiefs  were  carousing 

The  envoy,  of  France  unexpectedly  came, 
The  King  gave  his  hand  and  his  spirit  arousing, 
He  wished  him  long  life  while  he  drank  to  his  name, 
"We  welcome  Witchaire 
From  Le  Debonnaire, 
The  chivalrous  monarch  so  well  known  to  fame." 

He  said  to  Witchaire :  "What  good  news  from  my  brother, 

What  message  of  kindness  and  peace  did  he  send?" 
"King  Louis,  your  master  and  mine,"  said  the  other, 
"Greets  kindly  Count  Morvan,  his  vassal  and  friend." 
"Hold!  gallant  Witchaire, 
Your  words  are  not  fair," 
King  Morvan  said  firmly,  "Your  words  you  must  mend. 

45 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

"King  Louis  is  monarch  within  his  dominion, 

But  I  am  the  King  where  the  proud  Bretons  dwell ; 
We  greatly  respect  your  good  master's  opinion, 
Yet  firmly  maintain  our  opinion  as  well ; 
We  bow  to  the  King 
Whose  praises  we  sing, 
No  other;  these  words  to  your  liege  you  may  tell." 

"Until  you  pay  homage  and  prove  yourself  loyal 

To  him  who  now  sits  on  the  Emperor's  throne, 
Your  claim  to  a  scepter  and  privilege  royal 
Is  not  a  whit  better,  my  friend,  than  my  own." 
Thus  kindly  the  youth 
Spoke  plainly  the  truth/ 
"His  claim  as  my  liege,"  said  the  King,  "is  not  shown." 

"To  great  Charlemagne  and  his  royal  successors," 

The  envoy  replied,  "is  your  fealty  due, 
Who  conquered  the  land  and  are  still  its  possessors, 
To  whom  your  own  princes  have  sworn  to  be  true." 
"You  ever  will  find 
Forced  oaths  do  not  bind," 
The  Breton  replied,  "further  reason  have  you?" 

"Yea ;  when  you  were  wandering  sons  of  the  ocean, 

No  home  but  your  insecure  barks  on  the  wave, 
You  bartered  your  swords  and  your  loyal  devotion 
For  land  which  the  Empire  benignantly  gave, 
And  clement  old  Rome 
Provided  a  home 
For  those  who  had  no  place  to  rest  but  the  grave." 

46 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

"Sir  envoy,  and  friends,"  said  King  Morvan,  "the  stronger 

Can  govern  the  weak  and  his  conquests  maintain 
As  long  as  he's  able  and  not  a  day  longer  ; 
As  vassals  of  Louis  we  will  not  remain ; 
Our  cause  is  but  right 
And  Bretons  will  fight 
And  fall  to  a  man  or  our  liberties  gain. 

"The  legions  of  Rome  had  no  sooner  receded 

Than  in  from  the  east  swept  a  barbarous  horde, 
The  rights  of  all  countries  alike  were  unheeded, 
And  over  our  state  like  a  deluge  it  poured, 
But  soon  it  was  passed, 
The  hour  strikes  at  last, 
And  Bretons  demand  that  our  rights  be  restored. 

"Our  people  are  few  but  are  firmly  united 
And  ready  to  perish,  yea,  bravely  to  die, 
Their  word  to  their  country  is  faithfully  plighted, 
And  cursed  be  the  traitor  who  basely  would  fly; 
Our  watchword  shall  be 
'Our  country  is  free !' 
And  freedom  or  death  evermore  be  our  cry !" 

Then  counsellor,  courtier,  fair  lady  and  vassal 

Took  up  the  King's  words  and  repeated  the  cry, 
Till  out  through  the  halls  and  the  courts  of  the  castle 
It  swept  to  the  soldiers  out  under  the  sky, 
"The  country  is  free!" 
From  mountain  to  sea 
The  cry  went  wherever  a  Breton  passed  by. 

47 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

And  when  in  the  distance  the  sound  was  receding, 

"Witchaire,"  said  the  King-,  "have  you  one  further  plea?'* 
"I  have,"  he  replied,  "but  in  vain  is  my  pleading, 
No  Breton  desires  further  parley  with  me." 
With  heaviest  heart 
He  rose  to  depart, 
And  then  before  Morvan  he  sank  on  his  knee. 

Then  from  the  King's  eyes  the  light  suddenly  faded 

And  quickly  dark  shadows  appeared  on  his  brow, 
With  thoughts  of  grim  war  and  his  country  invaded, 
The  envoy's  departure  he  could  not  allow 
Till  he  could  provide 
A  way  to  decide 
The  question  more  calmly  and  wisely  than  now. 

"Haste  not,"  said  the  King,  "until  morn  you  shall  tarry, 

Our  chiefs  and  fair  ladies  request  you  to  stay, 
And  then  our  reply  to  your  King  you  shall  carry, 

And  cheered  and  refreshed  you  may  speed  on  your  way. 
What  ho !  bring  the  wine, 
Red  fruit  of  the  vine, 
Let  joy  fill  the  heart  ere  the  night  turn  to  day. 

"And,  daughter,  come  forward  our  dullness  to  brighten, 
Come  grant  to  your  elders  your  presence  and  cheer, 
And  let  the  fair  ladies  our  heaviness  lighten. 

Come,  show  that  both  talent  and  beauty  are  here, 
And  welcome  Witchaire 
From  Le  Debonnaire, 
Your  friend  and  companion  for  many  a  year." 

48 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Then  with  her  proud  train  of  fair  ladies  in  waiting 

Appeared  the  young  beauty,  the  Princess  Matilde, 
Where  erstwhile  the  King  and  his  friends  were  debating, 
And  thus  to  the  King  very  briefly  appealed : 
"My  lord  and  my  sire, 
We  beg  to  retire, 
In  things  diplomatic  we  willingly  yield. 

"We  have,  sir,  no  counsel  or  aid  to  be  given 

To  men  when  they  hob-nob  with  foes  of  the  state, 
We  ask  that  the  envoys  of  tyrants  be  driven 

Away  with  contempt  when  they  stand  at  your  gate." 
Not  waiting  reply 
She  proudly  swept  by, 
While  fraught  was  the  moment  with  Brittany's  fate. 

The  beautiful  creature  who  with  such  decision 

Thus  spoke  of  the  envoy  in  tones  of  disdain, 
Appeared  to  Witchaire  like  a  heavenly  vision 

As  coldly  she  passed  at  the  head  of  her  train, 
And  over  her  face 
There  came  a  faint  trace 
Of  something  that  softened  the  sting  and  the  pain. 

So  dazed  by  the  words  that  Matilde  had  just  spoken 

And  stunned  by  the  things  old  King  Morvan  had  said, 
By  visions  of  parting  and  ties  rudely  broken, 

He  vacantly  gazed  where  the  Princess  had  fled, 
Then,  banishing  gloom, 
Was  led  to  a  room 
Where  he  with  King  Morvan  insistently  plead. 

49 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

He  plead  as  one  human  heart  pleads  with  another, 
And  not  as  the  envoy  of  France  did  he  plead, 
He  plead  as  a  friend  and  he  warned  as  a  brother, 
Well  knowing  wise  counsel  was  Morvan's  great  need ; 
A  picture  he  drew 
So  vivid  and  true 
That  Morvan  seemed  half-way  inclined  to  give  heed. 

He  told  of  the  discord,  turmoil  and  disorder, 

The  bloody  encounters,  the  passions  and  strife, 
The  wild  foreign  armies  invading  his  border, 
The  havoc  of  war,  the  destruction  of  life, 
The  wounded,  the  slain, 
The  anguish,  the  pain, 
The  cry  of  the  maiden,  the  shriek  of  the  wife. 

When  Morvan's  thoughts  turned  to  his  country  all  wasted 

Where  quiet  now  reigned  and  prosperity  smiled, 
He  dashed  down  the  cup  with  its  contents  untasted 
And  thought  of  his  home  and  his  own  darling  child. 
And  King  Morvan  wept 
As  over  him  swept 
A  conflict  of  passion  all  boundless  and  wild. 

Thus   wracked   with   fierce   passion   and   wind-tossed   and 

driven, 

As  when  on  the  sea  a  wild  storm  sweeps  the  skies, 
He  asked  when  his  final  reply  must  be  given, 
Reply  fraught  with  woe  or  with  joyful  surprise, 
To  darken  the  way 
Or   brighten   the    day, 
And  heard  the  reply:  "Ere  the  morning  sun  rise." 

50 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

"Come  here,"  said  the  King,  "when  the  sun  lights  the  morn- 

ing." 

Witchaire  strolled  away  and  went  out  through  the  door, 
His  heart  sorely  grieved  at  Matilde's  bitter  scorning, 
And  sought  in  the  silence  a  balm  for  his  sore, 
And  gazed  at  the  field 
Where  he  and  Matilde 
Had  wandered  so  oft  and  might  wander  no  more. 

Alone  on  the  terrace  while  gloomily  pacing 

And  glancing  anon  through  the  dusk  at  the  field, 
He  heard  his  name  called  when  he  turned  and  stood  facing 
Within  her  own  window  the  Princess  Matilde ; 
Surpassingly  fair, 
She  calmly  stood  there, 
While  figure  and  feature  her  temper  revealed. 

So  proudly  she  stood  while  the  moments  were  fleeting, 

So  cold  was  her  look,  that  he  spoke  not  a  word, 
His  tongue  was  enchained  and  his  heart  wildly  beating, 
When  strangely  the  heart  of  the  maiden  was  stirred, 
And  then  as  Witchaire 
Grew  faint  with  despair, 
A  sigh  from  the  heart  of  the  maiden  was  heard. 

So  gently  at  last  was  the  long  silence  broken, 

So  gently  when  heart  fondly  answered  to  heart, 
So  tender  and  sweet  were  the  words  that  were  spoken, 
They  caused  the  young  maiden  to  suddenly  start : 
"Matilde!  My  Matilde!" 
"Witchaire!"  and  revealed 
And  joined  were  two  hearts  until  life  should  depart. 

51 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

They  silently  stood  while  their  pulses  were  beating, 

Her  little  hands  clasped  in  his  tender  embrace, 
She  silently  wept  as  the  moments  were  fleeting, 
And  gently  the  tear-drops  fell  down  on  his  face. 
When  time  had  sped  by, 
Matilde  with   a  sigh 
Spoke  gently  and  firmly  with  maidenly  grace. 

"My  words  must  be  few  for  the  moments  are  flying; 

I  love  not  the  envoy  of  Le  Debonnaire, 
The  Princess  of  Brittany  scorns  to  be  sighing, 
'Tis  only  Matilde  that  loves  gallant  Witchaire; 
Dear,  dear  days  of  yore 
Can  come  never  more, 
Our  hearts  and  our  hopes  are  alike  buried  there. 

"  'Tis  only  Matilde  you  may  have  for  a  lover, 

The  Princess  to  Brittany  gives  up  her  life, 
The  Princess  has  duties,  as  you  will  discover, 
That  greatly  transcend  the  dull  duties  of  wife ; 
Our  dreams  of  the  past, 
Too  happy  to  last, 
Must  end  ere  the  coming  of  warfare  and  strife." 

"Oh,  tell  me  not  so;  yet  again  let  us  wander 

Where  bloom  flecks  the  hills  and  our  beautiful  field, 
Where  sweetly  the  moon  sheds  its  beauty  out  yonder, 
Oh,  give  me  again  those  sweet  years,  my  Matilde! 
Oh,  tell  me  not  so, 
Our  dreams  cannot  go." 
Thus  warmly  Witchaire  to  his  lover  appealed. 

52 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

"Oh,  say  not,  Matilde,  that  our  vows  must  be  broken, 

Our  passionate  love  its  fruition  denied, 
You  are  not  your  own,  the  dear  word  has  been  spoken, 
Your  duty,  my  dearest,  whatever  betide, 
Wherever  I  go, 
For  weal  or  for  woe, 
Your  duty,  Matilde,  sends  you  there  by  my  side." 

"Oh,  would  that  it  might  be,"  Matilde  replied,  sighing, 

"Oh,  would  that  those  moments  might  come  once  again, 
When  over  the  hills  where  cloud  shadows  were  flying 
We  wandered  alone  through  the  meadow  and  glen, 
By  flowers  and  stream, 
Dear,  dear  vanished  dream, 
The  world  seemed  so  bright  and  so  beautiful  then. 

"Dear  halycon  days,  precious  moments  now  vanished, 

When  burdened  with  joy  every  hour  quickly  sped, 
Along  with  our  visions  our  hopes  must  be  banished, 
Our  hopes,  dreams  and  visions  alike  are  all  fled ; 
What  once  was  so  sweet 
I  cast  at  my  feet, 
As  flowers  once  prized  but  now  withered  and  dead. 

"Sometimes  I  go  back  where  we  once  loved  to  wander 

And  weave  the  wild  chaplet  again  for  my  hair, 
And  sit  all  alone  in  our  haunts  as  I  ponder 
On  days  when  we  wandered  so  happily  there; 
But  fame  now  enthralls, 
High  destiny  calls, 
And  now  I  must  leave  your  forever,  Witchaire." 

53 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

"High  destiny !"  cried  he  in  proud  indignation, 

"The  child  of  a  crownless,  impoverished  King!" 
"Yes,  poor,"  she  replied,  "but  to  honor  our  nation 
Will  ever  most  bravely  and  stubbornly  cling; 
Oh,  chide  me  not  now, 
Return  me  my  vow, 
And  peace  to  Matilde  you  so  kindly  will  bring." 

"I  do,"  he  replied,  and  Matilde,  quickly  kneeling, 

Held  both  of  his  hands  tightly  clasped  in  her  own, 
And  looking  to  heaven,  as  mutely  appealing, 

Her  face  seemed  as  pale  as  if  chiseled  in  stone, 
Then  quickly  her  eyes, 
Withdrawn  from  the  skies, 
Looked  down  in  her  lover's  while  brightly  they  shone. 

Some  moments  she  looked  while  her  pulses  were  throbbing, 

And  freely  her  tears  showered  down  in  his  face, 
Then  wildly  she  wept  and  her  passionate  sobbing 
Kept  on  unrestrained  and  unheeded  a  space, 
Then  nearer  she  drew. 
Till  fondly  she  threw 
Her  arms  round  his  neck  in  a  tender  embrace. 

Matilde  kissed  his  lips  as  the  moments  were  stealing, 
Then  fled  and  her  form  disappeared  in  the  gloom; 
Witchaire  threw  his  arms  where  Matilde  had  been  kneeling, 
He  felt  but  the  air,  she  was  gone  from  the  room, 
He  felt  but  the  air, 
Matilde,  all  so  fair, 
Was  gone  with  her  love  and  her  tears  and  her  bloom. 

54 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

He  struck  in  attempting  to  stop  her  from  flying 

A  suit  of  black  armor  that  fell  on  the  floor, 
Which  closely  resembled  as  there  it  was  lying 
The  form  of  a  person  stretched  out  by  the  door, 
And  by  ill  chance 
His  hand  struck  a  lance 
And  left  on  the  armor  some  drops  of  his  gore. 

Not  yet  fully  freed  from  an  old  superstition 

The  warrior  was  rilled  with  an  undefined  dread, 
King  Morvan  misled  by  his  foolish  ambition, 
Matilde,  still  devoted  and  loving,  yet  fled. — 
Crestfallen  and  dazed, 
Bewildered  and  crazed, 
He  trembled,  and  staggered,  and  fell  as  one  dead. 

An  hour  before  sunrise  the  Princess  stood  tapping 

And  asking  admission  to  King  Morvan's  door, 
She  heard  no  response  and  continued  her  rapping, 

Then  raising  the  latch  gently  tripped  o'er  the  floor, 
When  King  Morvan  said, 
Not  raising  his  head, 
"Witchaire,  I  must  ask  you  one  fleeting  hour  more." 

"My  father,  'tis  I,  I  came  early  to  greet  you 

And  counsel  you,  father,  while  sorely  distressed. 
I  come,"  said  Matilde,"  ere  the  envoy  shall  meet  you, 
To  know  what  reply  you  will  give  to  your  guest, 
To  help  you  decide 
If  war  shall  betide, 
Or  whether  in  peace  our  poor  Bretons  shall  rest." 

55 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

"Go  to,"  he  replied,  ''The  affairs  of  the  nation 

Are  duties  that  rest  on  the  shoulders  of  men, 
Return  to  the  things  that  belong  to  your  station, 
And  do  not  disturb  your  old  father  again; 
Your  eye  is  not  bright, 
Your  heart  is  not  light, 
And  dark  are  the  clouds  that  enshadow  your  ken. 

"Why  up  thus  so  early?     Go  back  to  your  slumber!" 
The  Princess  replied,  "Slumber  fled  from  my  eyes, 
And  waking  dreams  came  to  me,  came  without  number, 
And  I  must  reveal  them  before  the  run  rise." 
"Go  to!"  he  replied; 
"I  will  speak !"  she  cried, 
"My  dreams  I  must  tell  ere  the  sun  light  the  skies !" 

The  Princess  began  and  recited,  while  standing, 
The  story  that  came  from  the  Bretons  of  old, 
Her  tone  was  imperative,  gentle,  commanding, 
And  Morvan  gave  heed  while  the  story  she  told: 
She  saw  Conan  roam 
Away  from  his  home, 
From  Britain,  the  home  of  the  brave  and  the  bold. 

He  glided  away  on  the  waves  madly  dancing, 

The  piping  winds  screaming  so  shrill  on  the  air, 
While  brightly  the  sun  on  his  armor  was  glancing, 
And  landed  in  Gaul,  where,  though  fertile  and  fair, 
Still  redder  waves  flowed 
And  wilder  shrieks  shewed 
That  Conan  must  fight  for  a  resting  place  there. 

56 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Then  into  the  midst  of  the  fight  madly  leaping, 

He  cleared  him  a  place  by  the  sweep  of  the  sword, 
And  with  his  brave  followers  fearlessly  sweeping, 
He  vanquished  the  Prankish  barbarian  horde 
And  with  his  own  hand 
Subdued  the  fair  land 
Which  never  shall  be  by  the  Bretons  restored. 

"I  saw  the  long  line  of  our  monarchs  unbroken, 

Eleven  brave  rulers  that  sat  on  the  throne, 
I  heard  the  bold  words  that  our  Bretons  have  spoken, 
And  heard  them  with  joy,  for  those  words  were  our  own; 
Our  kings,  true  and  brave, 
Repelled  the  wild  wave 
Of  barbarous  force  with  our  Bretons  alone. 

"Then  bowing  my  head  in  my  shame  and  my  sorrow 

I  felt  the  disgrace  that  we  briefly  sustained, 
Till  promise  appeared  of  a  brighter  to-morrow 

When  Conan's  brave  spirit  appeared  and  maintained 
Our  country,  our  cause, 
Our  old  Celtic  laws, 
And  swept  through  the  land  till  our  freedom  was  gained. 

"I  lifted  my  head  and  I  saw  the  King  sitting, 

King  Morvan,  my  father,  arrayed  on  your  throne, 
And  clad  in  steel  armor  as  seemed  so  befitting, 

Your  nobles  stood  there  and  their  swords  brightly  shone, 
And  soon  you  arose 
Your  will  to  disclose 
And  told  us  the  Bretons  had  come  to  their  own. 

57 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

"Your  brow  was  so  beautiful,  yet  so  commanding 

And  terrible  in  the  old  crown  that  you  wore, 
Your  gestures  were  fierce  and  withal  so  demanding, 
And  fiery  your  glance  and  so  proudly  you  bore, 
Like  thunder  on  high 
You  sent  forth  the  cry, 
'Our  country  is  free!  we  are  free  evermore!' 

"And  straightway  the  cry,  as  by  some  inspiration, 
Caught  up  by  the  warrior,  the  noble,  the  dame, 
Repeated  abroad  and  sent  forth  to  the  nation, 
Inspired  and  set  Brittany  all  in  a  flame, 
'The  Bretons  are  free!' 
From  mountain  to  sea, 
In  castle  and  cottage  the  cry  was  the  same. 

"You  say  'twas  a  dream,  that  my  mind  did  but  wander  \ 

Sir,  it  was  no  dream !    Oh !  there  is  not  a  tree, 
No  flower,  no  weed,  not  a  rock  over  yonder 

Where  dawn  lights  the  hills  and  the  shades  of  night  flee, 
No  heart  beats  to-day 
Where  Bretons  hold  sway, 
Which  cries  not  aloud,  'We  are  free !  we  are  free !' " 

The  King  caught  his  child  in  his  arms,  fondly  crying: 

"Matilde !  my  Matilde !    Were  you  only  a  man, 
My  heart  might  be  hardened,  but  oh,"  said  he,  sighing, 
"With  you  I  must  yield  while  the  stronger  may  plan." 
Then  answered  Matilde: 
"We  never  will  yield ! 
We  rather  will  die  than  to  yield  but  a  span !" 

58 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

King  Morvan  replied,  and  his  accents  were  tender, 
"Alas!  my  dear  daughter,  that  deathly  pale  brow, 
Those  bloodless,  cold  lips,  and  these  limbs  weak  and  slender, 
Those  fair  silken  tresses,  alas !  I  feel  now 
The  father's  kind  heart 
And  not  the  stern  part 
That  kings  roughly  play  when  their  foemen  must  bow. 

"How  many  another  man  has  a  dear  daughter! 

How  many  fond  mothers  a  dear,  darling  son ! 
Whom  I  may  condemn  to  be  victims  of  slaughter 
If  rashly,  unwisely  my  work  shall  be  done ! 
The  husband,  the  wife 
May  perish  in  strife 
When  by  hasty  action  it  once  is  begun." 

The  Princess  replied:    "Then,  if  in  your  opinion 

The  King  represents  the  brave  men  of  the  land, 
The  dames  and  the  maidens  within  your  dominion 
All  stand  here  in  me  when  before  you  I  stand. 
Oh,  trust  your  Matilde! 
They  never  will  yield ! 
Through  me  they  present  their  insistent  demand. 

"If  safety  must  cost  the  good  name  of  the  nation 

Our  maidens  and  dames  are  all  ready  to  die ! 
The  King  should  show  valor  befitting  his  station 
And  show  his  proud  banner  unfurled  to  the  sky. 
Oh,  King!  be  a  man! 
Lead  on  in  the  van! 
And  'Freedom'  shall  be  our  victorious  cry!" 

59 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Again  did   King  Morvan  exhibit  his  feeling, 

Again  did  the  King  throw  his  arm  round  Matilde, 
His  internal  conflict  of  passion  revealing, 
While  she  to  his  bold,  martial  spirit  appealed, 
And  sat  on  his  knee 
While  singing  with  glee 
A  song  of  old  wars  and  the  feats  of  the  field. 

She  brought  him  the  wine-cup  and  bade  him  to  drain  it, 

Again  and  again  sang  the  songs  he  loved  best, 
She  lauded  their  cause  and  then  bade  him  maintain  it, 
She  thrice  poured  the  wine  as  he  drank  it  with  zest, 
Till  in  the  King's  eyes 
The  bold  enterprise 
Seemed  ready  at.  last  to  be  put  to  the  test. 

She  unsheathed  his  sword  and  in  frolicsome  measure 

Recounted  his  deeds  and  his  victories  won, 
Admired  the  keen  blade  and  with  infinite  pleasure 
And  gaiety  showed  how  his  brave  deeds  were  done, 
King  Morvan  was  cheered, 
His  vision  was  cleared, 
And  now  he  was  primed  for  the  rise  of  the  sun. 

He  strode  with  a  warrior's  step  through  the  morning 

As  rang  from  the  tower  the  clarion's  tone, 
Proclaiming  to  serf  and  to  noble  the  warning 

And  telling  the  world  that  the  morning  sun  shone; 
The  Princess  in  glee 
Exclaimed :  "We  are  free !" 
And  rushed  from  the  room  and  left  Morvan  alone. 

60 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

King  Morvan  still  strode,  his  bold  war-cry  repeating 

When  promptly  on  time  came  the  gallant  Witchaire 
To  carry  the  King's  final  answer  or  greeting 
Of  peace  or  of  war  to  the  Le  Debonnaire; 
And  to  his  surprise 
In  King  Morvan's  eyes 
He  read  the  sad  message  as  Morvan  stood  there. 

Said  Morvan:  "Tell  Louis  I  send  him  my  greeting, 

I  send  him  no  tribute,  not  one  single  cent ; 
Your  errand  is  sped."     Thus  was  ended  the  meeting. 
The  envoy  attempted  to  change  his  intent, 
But  to  his  dismay 
The  King  turned  away, 
And  thus  from  the  castle  Witchaire  sadly  went. 

Across  the  frontier  into  Brittany  riding, 

Witchaire  and  his  troopers  appeared  once  again, 
When  weeks  of  grim  war  had  been  sorely  betiding 
And  vexing  and  trying  the  spirits  of  men, 
Two  score  days  save  one 
Its  grim  course  had  run 
In  castle  and  cottage,  in  valley  and  glen. 

The  fields  had  been  ravaged,  the  country  was  lying 

Struck  down  by  a  sudden  and  merciless  blow, 
The  homes  were  destroyed  and  their  inmates  were  flying- 
Pursued  and  cut  down  by  a  barbarous  foe, 
The  merciless  game 
Of  pillage  and  flame 
Was  played  till  it  wrought  desolation  and  woe. 

61 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

When  all  was  subdued  but  the  brave  Breton  spirit 

And  Bretons  were  swept  from  the  land  to  the  sea, 
They  paused  not  at  death  for  they  seemed  not  to  fear  it, 
No  refuge  was  left  and  no  hope  they  could  see 
But  turning  at  bay 
In  battle  array 
And  dying  the  death  of  the  brave  and  the  free. 

Again  to  Witchaire  had  been  granted  commission 

To  carry  to  Morvan  an  offer  of  peace, 
He  vainly  had  sought  from  King  Louis  permission 
To  bring  to  the  unhappy  slaughter  surcease, 
But  won  in  the  end 
For  Morvan,  his  friend, 
A  chance  to  obtain  for  his  Bretons  release. 

He  cautioned  his  men  to  let  no  provocation 

Induce  them  to  draw  either  sword  or  a  spear, 
But  stay  the  strong  hand  that  had  wrought  desolation 
Nor  sully  their  cause  with  a  fair  maiden's  tear, 
To  camp  where  they  stood, 
Then  plunged  in  the  wood, 
His  heart  full  of  doubt  and  of  foreboding  fear. 

He  forded  the  river  and  with  his  heart  beating 
Ascended  the  hill  where  he  saw  at  a  glance 
A  change  had  been  wrought  where  the  Bretons,  retreating, 
To  harass  their  foes  and  prevent  their  advance, 
Had  razed  to  the  ground 
Whatever  they  found 
Would  aid  in  the  least  the  brave  soldiers  of  France. 

62 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

The  tents  were  destroyed  and  the  fragments  were  scattered, 

The  castle  still  stood  and  seemed  almost  entire, 
Though  some  of  its  small,  outer  bulwarks  were  shattered, 
And  still  was  defended  though  blackened  by  fire, 
And  sentinel  calls 
Were  heard  on  the  walls 
That  seemed  better  fit  for  the  lute  and  the  lyre. 

The  lakes  were  destroyed  and  the  river  diverted, 

And  brown  were  the  hills  and  the  valleys  between, 
The  fields  and  the  gardens  were  wholly  deserted, 
And  trodden  and  torn  were  the  meadows  of  green, 
War's  merciless  hand 
Had  ravaged  the  land, 
And  ruined  and  wrecked  was  the  beautiful  scene. 

Though  soon  it  was  known  that  he  came  on  a  mission 

Of  mercy  and  peace  from  the  Le  Debonnaire, 
The  envoy  stood  waiting  and  seeking  admission, 
The  patriots  either  in  scorn  or  despair 
Thus  forcing  to  wait 
Without  at  the  gate 
The  Emperor's  envoy,  the  noble  Witchaire. 

At  length  when  admitted  he  saw  no  confusion, 

The  sentries  were  whiling  the  moments  away, 
The  wine-cups  of  silver  and  gold  in  profusion, 
The  costumes  unusually  brilliant  and  gay, 
The  tables  were  set, 
The  courtiers  were  met, 
And  carpets  of  flowers  in  gorgeous  display. 

63 


"Witchaire,"  said  the  King,  as  they  greeted  each  other, 

And  silence  prevailed  through  the  banqueting  hall, 
"Witchaire,  what  good  news,  what  says  Louis,  my  brother, 
Now  since  he  has  driven  his  foes  to  the  wall  ?" 
The  envoy  replied, 
As  sadly  he  sighed, 
"My  master  regrets  to  see  valiant  men  fall. 

"He  bade  me  to  ask  that,  ere  any  more  perish, 

Ere  Bretons  all  lie  in  the  graves  of  the  slain, 
You  save  both  your  lives  and  the  cause  you  so  cherish ; 
Submit  and  pay  tribute,  and  he  will  sustain 
Your  country,  your  cause, 
Your  old  Breton  laws, 
And  war  shall  be  stayed  in  the  valley  and  plain. 

"No  longer  devoted  to  extermination 

Your  people  unharmed  may  return  to  the  field, 
The  family,  the  home  and  their  own  Breton  nation;" 
Thus  strongly  Witchaire  to  King  Morvan  appealed. 
King  Morvan  replied 
With  coldness  and  pride, 
While  irony  in  every  word  was  revealed: 

"Accept  our  poor  thanks  for  this  generous  offer; 
Advantages  which  we  would  gain  by  the  peace 
Contained  in  your  most  clement  Emperor's  proffer, 
Should  be  well  considered  if  he  will  release 
Our  land  from  the  sword, 
Our  rights  all  restored, 
And  bid  the  dread  slaughter  forever  to  cease. 

64 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

"Yet,  let  me  consider;  such  kind  condescension 
Is  shown  to  the  living  and  not  to  the  dead ; 
Such  clemency,  comrades,  would  cause  some  dissension 
And  bring  further  trouble  on  old  Morvan's  head, 
The  shades  of  the  slain 
Would  rise  to  complain 
That  Bretons  had  basely  deserted  and  fled. 

"I  swear  it  would  be  but  injustice  to  falter 

And  grovel  for  terms  which  for  them  we  refused, 
And  this  is  no  time  for  a  Breton  to  palter, 
No  time  for  a  man  to  get  issues  confused, 
The  ravens  at  morn 
Would  laugh  us  to  scorn; 
Of  cowardice  we  should  be  justly  accused. 

"Why,  even  the  skulls  when  upon  them  we  stumble 

Out  there  on  the  hills,  would  derisively  grin 
And  crying  with  shame,  incoherently  mumble 
And  chatter  their  teeth  with  a  horrible  din; 
I  hear  them  complain, 
Our  patriot  slain, 
That  we  have  consented  a  parley  to  begin. 

"And  since  this  is  so,  then  our  fate  is  decided ! 
But  hold!     If  we  yield  our  immediate  return 
To  home  and  to  family  and  field  is  provided ; 
No  heart  made  of  iron  this  offer  could  spurn ; 
The  words  strike  the  ear 
As  songs  that  we  hear, 
As  dews  gently  fall  on  the  leaves  of  the  fern. 

65 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

"The  very  words  fall  as  the  kiss  of  a  mother 
Upon  the  sweet  lips  of  a  dear,  loving  child, 
As  words  of  endearment  from  sister  or  brother, 
Or  whispers  of  love  to  a  maid  sweet  and  mild, 
As  babbling  of  brooks 
In  cool,  quiet  nooks 
Where  summer  birds  sing  and  the  flowers  grow  wild. 

"Yea,  truly,  alas!  he  will  grant  us  permission 
To  visit  our  fields  and  our  meadows  again, 
But  barren  and  desolate  is  their  condition 
And  bare  as  the  mountain,  the  marsh  and  the  fen; 
War's  withering  breath 
Has  scorched  them  to  death, 
And  nought  is  found  there  but  the  graves  of  brave  men. 

"Our  homes?  Yea,  the  place  of  our  sires'  habitations! 

In  ruins,  in  ashes,  a  smouldering  heap! 
The  laughing-stock,  Bretons,  of  neighboring  nations, 
A  nation  of  cowards,  deluded,  asleep ! 
Our  kinsmen  ?    But  slaves ! 
Our  sons  ?    In  their  graves ! 
Our  daughters?    No  heritage  left  but  to  weep! 

"Witchaire !  do  you  dare,  as  our  fury  increases, 

To  mock  us,  to  beard  us  here,  right  in  our  den, 
Where,  ready  to  hew  and  to  be  hewn  to  pieces, 
We  rise  like  a  tiger,  bold  desperate  men, 
To  slay  and  be  slain, 
For  loss  or  for  gain, 
To  perish  or  gain  our  lost  freedom  again  ?"    • 

66 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

"Revenge !  and  then  death  !"  cried  a  voice  deep  and  hollow, 

The  cry  was  re-echoed  with  many  a  yell ; 
"Revenge!  and  then  death!"  and  still  fiercer  cries  follow, 
While  voices  of  women  in  shrill  chorus  swell ; 
The  masquerade  closed, 
The  faces  exposed 
Showed  passions  more  baleful  than  language  could  tell. 

The  smiles  disappeared  and  malign,  hungry  glances 

Were  darted  to  where  the  young  Frank  stood  alone, 
While  on  came  the  Bretons  with  daggers  and  lances, 
And  Morvan  sat  gloomily  there  on  the  throne ; 
"Sir  Envoy,"  he  cried, 
"Ere  evil  betide 
Depart,  ere  these  looks  have  more  dangerous  grown." 

"He  shall  not  depart !"  cried  a  voice  wildly  shrieking, 

And  out  of  their  scabbards  the  Breton  swords  flew 
Whose  wielders  were  fiercely  and  angrily  seeking 
To  thrust  the  brave  heart  of  their  enemy  through, 
While  folding  his  arms, 
Ignoring  alarms, 
The  King  calmly  sat  as  still  nearer  they  drew. 

He  calmly  looked  on  as  the  Bretons  drew  nearer, 

Their  bloody  intentions  not  being  concealed, 
While  shrieks  for  dire  vengeance  rang  clearer  and  clearer 
And  plainly  their  bloody  intentions  revealed ; 
The  Frank  would  have  died 
Had  not  to  his  side 
To  rescue  her  lover  come  Princess  Matilde. 

67 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

"Back,  friends!"  said  the  Princess,  "stand  back!"  she  com- 
manded, 

She  flung  back  the  swords  of  the  murderous  band, 
She  drove  back  the  blood-thirsty  crowd  single-handed, 
And  there  by  her  lover  alone  took  her  stand ; 
There  was  not  a  trace 
Of  blood  in  her  face, 
And  wasted  and  thin  were  her  face  and  her  hand. 

"My    friends,"    said    the    Princess,    "my    friends    and    my 

brothers, 

This  man  is  an  envoy  who  trusts  himself  here, 
He  trusts  in  our  honor,  the  honor  of  others, 
The  honor  that  Bretons  have  ever  held  dear; 
Unsullied  and  pure 
Our  name  shall  endure 
While  we  to  the  dictates  of  honor  adhere. 

"Between  us  and  France  there  is  this  one  distinction, 

That  we  have  as  yet  held  our  honor  supreme, 
And  when  we  are  driven  to  total  extinction 
And  vanish  for  aye  like  the  lines  of  a  dream, 
The  nations  will  tell 
How  bravely  we  fell 
And  passed  like  a  star  with  our  honor  agleam. 

"The  nations  will  tell  and  the  tale  be  repeated, 

And  people  will  hear  with  a  flush  and  a  tear, 
How  Bretons  could  die  without  being  defeated, 
A  people  so  just  that  they  never  knew  fear, 
Then  in  this  last  scene 
Oh,  let  us  keep  clean 
The  cause  that  to  Bretons  has  ever  been  dear. 

68 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

"Sir  Envoy,  depart,  and  inform  your  base  master 

That  since  we  have  found  that  we  cannot  live  free, 
We  bravely  will  die  in  a  bloody  disaster 

In  castle,  in  cottage,  from  mountain  to  sea !" 
In  silence  Witchaire 
Stood  motionless  there, 
Transfixed  and  unable  to  speak  or  to  flee. 

In  silence  he  stood  until  signs  of  renewal 

Of  passions  that  caused  the  fair  Princess  alarm, 
And  knowing  the  Bretons  were  heartless  and  cruel 
Matilde  took  the  envoy  of  France  by  the  arm, 
And  leading  him  on 
As  daggers  were  drawn 
She  rescued  her  lover  from  danger  and  harm. 

Descending  the  stairs  as  the  Princess  was  leading 

And  passing  the  doorway  out  into  the  air 
Witchaire  soon  recalled  that,  though  vain  was  his  pleading 
To  save  the  old  King,  he  must  now  seek  to  care 
For  one  far  more  dear 
While  danger  was  near, 
A  danger  that  grew  with  the  depth  of  despair. 

He  paused  near  the  door,  and,  to  lend  his  assistance, 

Unloosed  from  his  own  the  weak  clasp  of  her  hand, 
Threw  round  her  one  arm  as  he  met  no  resistance 
And  strolled  to  a  spot  where  once  more  they  could  stand 
As  oft  they  had  done 
When  watching  the  sun 
Paint  colors  of  gold  on  the  sky  and  the  land. 

69 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

He  pointed  while  trembling  with  deepest  emotion 

Away  to  those  summits  of  memory  and  love, 
Then  turned  to  Matilde  with  a  look  of  devotion, 
Matilde,  ever  gentle  and  mild  as  a  dove; 
"Matilde!    My  Matilde!" 
He  kindly  appealed, 
"Oh,  hear  the  kind  messages  sent  from  above! 

"How  sweetly  and  softly  the  dew  is  now  falling! 
How  fragrant  the  breath  of  the  forests  of  green ! 
How  plainly  the  breezes  of  evening  are  calling, 
The  beautiful  hills  and  the  sky  all  serene, 
To  one  and  to  all 
These  messengers  call 
And  point  to  the  arm  on  which  mortals  may  lean. 

"Look  where  the  bright  light  on  the  hill-top  is  streaming; 

'Twas  there  that  1  whispered  my  first  lover's  vow; 
We  wandered  there  often  so  happily  dreaming, 

But  saw  not  the  days  that  have  dawned  on  us  now; 
And  often  it  seems 
Such  heaven-sent  dreams 
Teach  men  immortality  sits  on  his  brow." 

He  thought  for  a  moment  his  efforts  had  banished 

The  Princess'  foreboding  and  hopeless  despair, 
But  soon  his  encouraging  hopes  quickly  vanished, 
As  clearly,  though  sadly,  she  said  to  Witchaire : 
"Though  dear  it  may  seem 
It  was  but  a  dream, 
A  vision  as  fleeting  as  now  it  seems  fair." 

70 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

"It  cannot  return  in  its  freshness  and  beauty," 

The  envoy  replied,  "yet,  as  seen  through  our  tears, 
And  measured  and  tried  by  the  standard  of  duty, 
Inspiring  our  lives,  it  will  rise  with  the  years ; 
For,  captured  alive, 
The  Count  will  survive, 
Count  Morvan,  your  father,  in  spite  of  our  fears. 

"I  pledge  this  myself,  and  though  monarch  no  longer 

He  still  will  be  father,  though  monarch  no  more, 
And  in  my  own  castle  which  soon  will  grow  stronger 
We  still  may  be  happy  as  in  the  loved  yore." 
"He  never  shall  yield!" 
Retorted  Matilde, 
"I  swear  by  the  Being  that  Christians  adore ! 

"Witchaire,  if  I  thought  he  would  basely  surrender 

And  not  rather  give  up  his  life  on  the  field, 
The  bravest,  the  truest,  the  noblest  defender, 
The  hand  of  his  daughter,  his  only  Matilde, 
Would  play  its  bold  part 
And  plunge  to  his  heart 
The  dagger  that  Bretons  well  know  how  to  wield  I 

"He  captured  alive,  while  his  subjects  are  dying! 

The  lord  of  a  graveyard !    A  king  of  the  dead ! 
While  round  him  in  ruins  his  kingdom  is  lying, 
While  glory  and  honor  forever  are  fled ! 
You  might  as  well  strive 
To  save  me  alive, 
Who  brought  this  misfortune  and  woe  on  his  head !" 

71 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

"Hush !    Hush !"  said  Witchaire,  "for  your  dear  spirit  wan- 
ders." 

The  Princess  replied:     "It  will  soon  be  at  rest." 
She  paused  for  a  moment,  a  moment  she  ponders, 
And  then  she  replied :  "I  have  done  what  was  best, 
Without  fear  or  shame 
I  lost  in  the  game, 
For  false  was  my  fortune  when  put  to  the  test. 

"Yet,  what  I  have  done  was  for  honor  and  glory, 

And  by  the  Great  Being  my  people  adore, 
Though  dreadful  indeed  be  the  tragical  story, 
If  fate  should  demand  the  decision  once  more, 
For  honor  and  fame 
I'd  play  the  same  game, 
Though  fate  might  defeat  me  and  cozen  me  sore." 

She  paused  and  walked  proudly  away  a  short  distance, 

Till  softness  and  tenderness  over  her  stole, 
Subduing  her  heart  with  a  gentle  persistence ; 

"Ay,  look !"  cried  Witchaire,  "where  the  dark  shadows  roll 
Till  frenzy  depart, 
Till  love  fill  your  heart, 
And  God's  tender  mercy  descend  on  your  soul !" 

"I  will  look,  for  looking  will  now  be  no  treason 

To  country  or  King,"  then  replied  the  fair  maid, 
"My  weary  heart  bids  me  to  look  for  a  season 
At  haunts  where  in  happier  days  we  have  strayed, 
And  over  a  flood 
Of  tears  and  of  blood 
I  see  where  no  crossing  can  ever  be  made ! 

72 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

"Farewell,  ye  fair  skies,  where  the  sunset  is  glowing! 

Ye  beautiful  hills  where  the  wild  flowers  bloom! 
Ye  whispers  of  love  where  far  rivers  are  flowing! 
Ye  haunts  of  my  youth,  with  your  hints  of  perfume! 
No  cool,  fragrant  dews 
Or  fair  sunset  hues 
Shall  welcome  me  here  as  I  stray  from  my  room. 

"For  me  nevermore  shall  be  heard  in  the  gloaming 

The  clarion  call  or  the  song  of  a  bird ! 
Or  music  of  bees  when  afar  they  are  roaming 
When  myriad  sounds  of  the  morning  are  heard! 
Farewell,  shady  seats 
Where  tenderly  beats 
The  heart  when  its  tenderest  feelings  are  stirred! 

"Ye  rich  hanging  boughs !    It  is  hard  thus  to  sever 

My  heart  from  the  scenes  where  I  lingered  long  years. 
Ye  groves  that  I  love,  now  farewell,  and  forever !" 
Her  words  slowly  came  as  if  held  by  her  fears 
That  each  would  be  last, 
Then  freely  and  fast 
Down  over  her  face  swept  a  torrent  of  tears. 

Her  face  to  Witchaire,  she  was  slowly  retreating ; 

He  gasped :  "Oh,  not  yet !    Do  not  yet  say  farewell ! 
I  would — Oh,  I  would — "  but  with  heart  wildly  beating 
He  felt  his  voice  choke  and  his  warrior  heart  swell, 
By  passion  beguiled 
He  wept  as  a  child, 
As  tears  in  a  torrent  increasingly  fell. 

73 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Matilde  to  his  side  in  a  moment  came  sweeping, 

Her  arms  round  the  neck  of  her  lover  she  threw, 
And  shaken  by  feeling  and  passionate  weeping 

She  sobbed :    "My  dear  love,  my  farewell  was  to  you ! 
My  guide  and  my  light 
By  day  and  by  night, 
I  loved  you,  Witchaire,  with  a  love  that  was  true ! 

"The  woods,  hills  and  trees  and  the  rivers  about  you, 
The  attributes  were  that  but  proved  you  divine, 
And  would  be  but  rocks,  plants  and  water  without  you; 
You  caused  all  their  life  and  their  beauty  to  shine, 
They  spoke  in  your  voice 
And  made  me  rejoice; 
I  worshipped  Witchaire  when  I  bowed  at  their  shrine !" 

The  words  from  her  lips  had  not  more  than  departed 

When  loud  came  the  clarion's  call  on  the  air, 
And  quickly  unclasping  her  hands  Matilde  started 
And  reaching  the  doorway  looked  back  at  Witchaire, 
Her  form  and  her  face, 
The  picture  of  grace, 
As  seen  through  the  shadows  seemed  wondrously  fair. 

She  lingered  a  moment  and  then  quickly  vanished, 

While  sadly  her  lover  still  gazed  through  his  tears. 
His  tears  and  his  sadness  were  suddenly  banished 
As  stern  martial  voices  saluted  his  ears, 
And  out  from  the  hall 
The  clarion's  call 
Sent  stripling  and  veteran  grizzled  with  years. 

74 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Assured  that  King  Morvan  would  fall  in  the  slaughter 

And  wishing  to  learn  what  provision  was  made, 
In  case  of  disaster,  to  care  for  the  daughter, 

Out  into  the  courtyard  Witchaire  slowly  strayed; 
The  torches'  red  glare, 
The  clarion's  blare 
Proclaimed  where  the  troops  were  in  order  arrayed. 

The  troopers  were  mounting  in  soldier-like  manner, 

While  ensigns  and  badges  of  honor  they  bore, 
King  Morvan  himself  held  the  national  banner 
Torn  almost  to  tatters  and  clotted  with  gore, 
Accoutred  in  steel 
From  helmet  to  heel, 
Unsheathed  and  well-tempered  the  swords  that  they  wore. 

While  brightly  the  light  on  their  armor  was  glancing 

And  horses  impatiently  pawing  the  ground 
The  gate  was  thrown  open  and  Morvan,  advancing, 
Commanded  a  halt  by  the  clarion's  sound; 
A  goblet  of  gold 
Was  filled,  as  of  old, 
While  bold  cavaliers  gathered  gravely  around. 

Ere  drinking  the  wine,  as  his  bosom  was  swelling, 
He  glanced  for  a  moment  around  the  old  place, 
His  eye  on  one  window  in  vain  fondly  dwelling 
And  seeking  a  view  of  his  daughter's  pale  face 
To  solace  his  heart 
Ere  he  should  depart, 
Then  drank  to  the  health  of  the  bold  Breton  race. 

75 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

"Health,    ladies!"  he    said,    "health,    my  friends    and    my 

brothers ! 

For  country  and  home  we  now  make  the  last  play, 
Our  land,  if  we  lose,  will  be  taken  by  others, 
And  all  that  we  love  will  be  lost  in  a  day, 
At  Brittany's  call 
Like  men  we  will  fall, 
And  fadeless  our  glory  forever  and  aye ! 

"If  ever  again,  although  blackened  and  crumbled, 

Our  castles  and  homes  we  are  fated  to  see 
Our  arms  will  prevail  and  our  foemen  be  humbled, 
And  Bretons  once  more  will  be  honored  and  free ; 
At  Brittany's  call 
We  speed  to  our  fall, 
Determined  to  perish  but  never  to  flee !" 

The  cup  was  then  passed  till  they  all  had  partaken, 

Each  drank  in  his  turn,  till  the  cup  had  gone  round, 
To  dear  ones  and  homes  now  forever  forsaken ; 
Then  clear  on  the  air  rang  the  clarion's  sound, 
And  into  the  gloom 
And  on  to  their  doom 
The  King  and  his  men  swiftly  sped  o'er  the  ground. 

Witchaire  gazed  with  pity  and  great  admiration 

At  each  stately  form  as  it  plunged  in  the  gloom 
That  seemed  but  a  type  to  his  imagination 

Of  death  and  the  grave  and  their  fast-coming  doom ; 
Until  at  the  last 
A  stripling  rode  past, 
His  helmet  adorned  with  a  beautiful  plume. 

76 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

The  stripling  was  delicate,  graceful  and  slender, 

More  fit  for  his  home  and  his  mother's  embrace 
Than  riding  to  war  as  his  country's  defender 
When  men  ride  to  death  in  a  desperate  race ; 
Witchaire  cursed  the  day 
Ambition's  dire  sway 
Drove  nations  to  war  at  a  desperate  pace. 

Witchaire  was  forgotten  and  thus  left  to  wander 

Alone  through  the  court  when  the  portals  were  closed, 
And  thus  was  enabled  in  quiet  to  ponder; 

At  length  he  recalled  that  Matilde  was  exposed 
To  war's  bloody  strife 
When  pillage  was  rife, 
Where  ruffians  might  enter  almost  unopposed. 

The  wreck  of  the  army  was  on  the  defensive 

Not  far  from  the  castle,  hemmed  in  by  the  foe, 
The  natural  bulwarks,  at  first  quite  extensive, 
Had  lately  been  shattered  by  blow  after  blow, 
And  doubtless  the  King 
Was  seeking  to  bring 
His  knights  to  their  aid  ere  the  morning's  first  glow. 

The  last  stroke  must  come  with  the  hours  of  the  morning, 

Unless  the  bold  Bretons  could  win  in  the  fray, 
When  autumn's  bright  tints  and  soft  hues  were  adorning 
The  mountains  and  forests  and  meadows  of  grey, 
The  false  lure  of  fame, 
The  desperate  game 
In  slaughter  must  end  on  the  fortieth  day. 

77 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Those  who  might  escape  from  the  terrible  slaughter 

Through  wood  and  morass  to  the  castle  would  fly, 
Where  noble  and  serf,  the  old  King  and  his  daughter 
Might  fight  to  the  end  and  defiantly  die; 
Thus  reasoned  Witchaire 
While  pondering  there, 
As  pale  grew  his  cheek  and  his  heart  heaved  a  sigh. 

Thus  reasoned  the  Frank  and  he  wisely  concluded, 

To  carry  Matilde  till  the  danger  was  past 
To  some  place  of  safety,  near  by  but  secluded, 

While  battle's  red  rout  and  the  trumpet's  rude  blast, 
Where  slaughter  ran  high, 
Rent  earth  and  the  sky 
And  ended  the  dream  of  the  Bretons  at  last. 

He  sent  her  a  message  requesting  a  meeting, 
And,  finding  the  servant  did  not  reappear, 
He  started  himself  as  the  moments  were  fleeting 
And  sought  information  from  all  who  passed  near; 
Some  gave  no  reply, 
Some  coldly  passed  by, 
Some  laughed  in  his  face  with  no  vestige  of  fear. 

He  sought  the  rooms  used  by  the  women  for  sleeping, 

Concluding  the  Princess  had  gone  to  her  rest; 
In  some  of  the  rooms  he  heard  moaning  and  weeping, 
In  some  all  was  silent  and  vain  was  his  quest; 
At  length  in  his  round 
A  lady  he  found 
Who  showed  Matilde's  room,  at  his  earnest  behest. 

78 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

As  soon  as  she  gave  the  desired  information 

Her  wild  shrieks  of  laughter  rang  out  in  the  gloom; 
Witchaire  gently  knocked  and  with  much  trepidation 
He  listened  but  heard  not  a  sound  in  the  room, 
Again  gently  tapped, 
Then  still  louder  rapped, 
And  yet  all  within  was  as  still  as  the  tomb. 

At  length  he  imagined  his  hearing  was  greeted 

By  sounds  from  within  and  he  called  her  by  name, 
Still  louder  he  knocked  and  her  name  he  repeated, 
And  then  to  the  hasty  conclusion  he  came 
To  trifle  no  more, 
But  break  in  the  door, 
And  boldly  the  right  of  protector  to  claim. 

Before  doing  this  he  quite  sternly  commanded 
The  Princess,  if  there,  to  respond  to  his  call, 
And  then  in  imperative  tone  he  demanded 

That  she  should  retire  ere  the  castle  should  fall, 
While  from  the  next  room 
And  piercing  the  gloom 
Hysterical  laughter  rang  out  through  the  hall. 

The  laughter  developed  at  length  into  screaming 

That  broke  through  the  darkness  and  startled  his  ear, 
Till  visions  of  danger  and  horror  came  teeming 
And  dreadful  illusions  and  foreboding  fear ; 
Impatient  at  length 
He  summoned  his  strength 
And  broke  in  the  door,  and,  lo !  no  one  was  near ! 

79 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Surprised  and  bewildered  and  somewhat  dejected 

Witchaire  for  a  moment  stood  there  on  the  floor, 
But  when  he  recovered  himself  and  collected 

His  thoughts  he  remarked :  "I  have  still  one  chance  more; 
Subdued  by  my  band 
And  into  my  hand 
King  Morvan  shall  fall  with  the  standard  he  bore. 

"The  King  shall  be  followed,  his  party  surrounded, 

And  captured  alive  ere  he  fall  on  the  field, 
Deprived  of  their  leader,  surprised  and  confounded, 
His  followers  will  be  compelled  soon  to  yield ; 
However  things  go, 
For  weal  or  for  woe, 
Matilde  is  in  safety  wherever  concealed. 

"And  when  we  have  fought  and  the  battle  is  ended 

I  then  will  obtain  from  the  Emperor's  grace, 
Well  knowing  its  strength  and  how  ably  defended, 
Command  of  the  men  who  are  sent  to  this  place, 
And  thus  I  will  shield 
The  Princess  Matilde 
And  Morvan,  the  last  of  the  bold  Breton  race." 

He  flew  through  the  halls,  to  the  stables  descended, 

And  with  his  own  hands  he  accoutred  a  steed, 
He  found  the  lone  castle  so  poorly  defended 

That  only  for  sword  and  stout  words  he  had  need, 
And  though  it  was  late 
He  rode  to  the  gate, 
And  out  through  the  darkness  he  quickened  his  speed. 

80 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Still  onward  he  sped  as  the  dawn  of  the  morning 
Appeared  in  the  east  and  gave  promise  of  day 
And  carried  to  both  of  the  combatants  warning 
To  summon  their  strength  for  the  last  bloody  fray, 
And  over  the  plain 
Where  wounded  and  slain 
Their  armor  and  weapons  had  dropped  by  the  way. 

He  rode  where  canals  and  swift  rivers  were  flowing 

And  slowly  he  threaded  his  way  through  the  trees; 
He  rode  where  the  fresh  morning  breezes  were  blowing 
'And  slowly  the  daylight  appeared  by  degrees, 
Where  autumn  birds  flew, 
The  sun  kissed  the  dew, 
'Mid  songs  of  the  birds  and  the  hum  of  the  bees. 

As  on  through  the  forest  he  gallantly  speeded 
He  feared  his  arrival  might  still  be  too  late; 
His  wish  to  save  Morvan,  unknown  and  unheeded, 
Might  still  not  avail  to  avert  his  sad  fate ; 
The  castle  might  fall 
And  Morvan  and  all 
Be  slaughtered  ere  he  could  arrive  at  the  gate. 

The  Bretons  seemed  filled  with  a  determination 
To  die  when  they  came  to  the  point  of  despair, 
And  too  well  he  knew  that  sometimes  immolation 
Of  women  by  kinsmen  occurred,  although  rare, 
And,  conjured  by  fear, 
Shrieks  fell  on  his  ear 
And  visions  of  slaughter  and  death  filled  the  air. 

81 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

While  onward  his  steed  was  still  faithfully  bounding 

A  note  too  familiar  saluted  his  ear, 
The  notes  of  his  own  party's  clarion  sounding 
The  call  for  their  leader  came  faintly  but  clear, 
The  wild  spectres  fled 
As  onward  he  sped, 
And  with  them  departed  all  vestige  of  fear. 

The  horse  bounded  forward  till  nearer  and  nearer 

To  where  the  road  passed  from  the  woods  to  a  glade, 
When  loud  rang  the  clarion  clearer  and  clearer, 
The  sounds  of  the  battle,  the  clang  of  the  blade, 
But  loud  above  all 
His  clarion  call 
Rang  out  by  his  soldiers  imploring  his  aid. 

But  when  a  small  eminence  he  had  ascended 

And  cast  his  eye  hastily  over  the  field, 
He  saw  where  the  combatants  fiercely  contended 
As  Bretons  threw  javelins  and  then  quickly  wheeled, 
He  saw  his  men  fall 
And  heard  their  loud  call, 
Imploring  his  aid  ere  they  basely  must  yield. 

The  soldier  was  greeted  with  wild  acclamation 

'As  swiftly  he  rode  to  the  thick  of  the  fray, 
Where  slowly  the  Bretons  in  fierce  desperation 
Were  forcing  the  veteran  Franks  to  give  way, 
And  waving  his  sword 
He  quickly  restored 
The  wavering  Franks  and  recovered  the  day. 

82 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

The  Bretons  in  armor  and  all  intermingled, 
He  saw  but  en  masse,  in  a  general  view, 
What  was  his  dismay  when  he  saw  himself  singled 
And  picked  for  assault  by  a  man  whom  he  knew 
By  the  banner  he  bore, 
All  covered  with  gore, 
To  be  old  King  Morvan  as  nearer  he  drew. 

The  veteran's  shock  he  avoided  by  springing 

Aside  and  permitting  old  Morvan  to  pass, 

And  suddenly  send  his  lance  merrily  ringing 

Against  the  well-tried  and  well-tempered  cuirass 
Of  Coslus,  a  knight, 
Who  bravely  could  fight 
As  well  on  a  mountain,  a  plain  or  morass. 

This  furious  attack  which  was  quite  unexpected, 

Bore  Coslus  almost  from  his  horse  to  the  ground, 
But  by  a  back  stroke  of  his  sword  he  effected 
The  Breton's  undoing  as  King  Morvan  found; 
The  back-handed  stroke 
Its  fastenings  broke, 
And  down  fell  the  casque  with  a  foreboding  sound. 

This  rendered  unequal  the  fight  by  exposing 

King  Morvan's  grey  head  to  the  younger  man's  blade, 
When  straight  to  the  King  for  the  purpose  of.closing 
He  sped,  and  impetuous  courage  displayed; 
The  King  quickly  drew, 
The  fight  to  renew, 
When  clashing  of  steel  loudly  rang  through  the  glade. 

83 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

A  thought  at  that  moment  subconsciously  darted 

With  lightning-like  speed  through  the  mind  of  Witchaire, 
And  ere  it  was  gone  he  unconsciously  started, 

And  said :  "To  the  ground  the  old  King  I  will  bear, 
And  seeing  him  fall 
His  followers  all 
Supposing  him  perished,  will  fly  in  despair. 

"And  thus  shall  King  Morvan  be  easily  captured 

And  taken  again  to  the  Princess  Matilde." 
Witchaire  at  the  thought  was  quite  thrilled  and  enraptured, 
And  couching  his  lance  he  sped  over  the  field: 
But  seeing  his  flight, 
A  bold  Breton  knight 
Rode  out,  and  he  saw  his  design  was  revealed. 

The  Breton  went  down  and  the  Frank,  unimpeded, 

Unscathed,  irresistibly  swept  on  his  way; 
The  fate  of  the  knight  was  unwisely  unheeded, 
Another  brave  Breton  advanced  to  the  fray, 
He  sped  without  fear 
And  shivered  his  spear, 
Fell  back  from  his  charger  and  helplessly  lay. 

Still  onward  Witchaire  to  King  Morvan  went  speeding, 

Against  his  thick  armor  directing  his  spear, 
When  reckless  of  life  and  the  danger  unheeding, 
Unarmed,  unaccoutred,  a  young  cavalier 
Sprang  into  the  field 
King  Morvan  to  shield, 
And  fell,  as  the  Frank  and  King  Morvan  fought  near. 

84 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Witchaire  with  solicitude  anxious  and  tender 

Withdrawing  his  spear  from  the  cavalier's  breast, 
Beheld  the  poor  stripling  so  graceful  and  slender 
Who  seemed  to  have  lingered  bemoaned  and  caressed 
And  wearing  his  plume 
Rode  forth  in  the  gloom 
To  give  up  his  life  at  his  country's  behest. 

Yet,  short  as  it  was  this  delay  was  sufficient 
To  baffle  Witchaire  in  the  object  he  sought, 
For  Coslus'  strong  arm  was  in  nothing  deficient, 
And  as  he  and  Morvan  a  fierce  duel  fought 
He  cleft  the  King's  head 
And  Morvan  fell  dead, 
His  dream  of  a  kingdom  thus  coming  to  nought. 

At  this  fatal  sight  all  his  followers  flying 

Pursued  by  the  knights  and  the  soldiers  of  France, 
Dismounting,  Witchaire  sought  the  youth  who  was  dying, 
His  tender  breast  pierced  by  the  Frank's  cruel  lance, — 
His  heart  gave  a  bound, 
Then  fast  to  the  ground 
Transfixed  were  his  feet,  like  a  man  in  a  trance. 

A  long  golden  ringlet  as  fair  as  the  morning 

Hung  through  the  youth's  helmet  and  flung  on  the  field; 
Witchaire  in  his  haste  all  polite  methods  scorning, 
Tugged  hard  at  the  fastenings  and  forced  them  to  yield, 
A  cry  rent  the  air 
As,  trembling,  Witchaire 
Discovered  the  face  of  the  Princess  Matilde. 

85 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

The  Princess,  refreshed  by  the  air,  or  reviving 

On  hearing  the  voice  that  she  long  had  loved  well, 
Said  faintly:  "Witchaire,  is  my  father  surviving?" 
His  looks  told  her  quickly  what  tongue  could  not  tell; 
"Thank  God !"  said  Matilde, 
"He  died  on  the  field, 
In  honor  he  lived  and  in  honor  he  fell." 


"Where  is  he?"  she  whispered,  "oh,  did  he  die  near  me? 

And  now  will  you  lift  me,  my  lover  and  friend, 
And  lay  me  beside  my  dear  father,  oh,  hear  me, 
And  there  let  me  look  on  his  face  to  the  end 
And  hold  his  dear  hand, 
Defence  of  our  land, 
The  hand  that  no  longer  can  bravely  defend?" 

He  moved  her  to  where  the  dead  body  was  lying; 

She  looked  at  his  wound  as  her  grief  she  repressed, 
She  kissed  his  grey  hair  and  his  lips,  deeply  sighing, 
And  leaned  her  weak  head  on  his  motionless  breast, 
His  arm  in  some  haste 
She  drew  round  her  waist, 
And  thus  to  her  lover  her  feelings  expressed: 

"Come,  sit  down,"  she  whispered,  "sit  down  by  your  lover, 

And  put  your  arms  round  me  awhile  ere  I  die, 
As  yet  for  a  moment  I  fondly  shall  hover 

This  side  of  the  grave  where  so  soon  I  shall  lie, 
And  then  without  fear, 
With  precious  ones  near 
Matilde  will  go  hence  without  tremor  or  sigh." 

86 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

"I  dare  not,"  he  said,  overcome  with  his  feeling, 

"For  it  was  from  me  you  received  your  death  stroke ;" 
Then  while  by  her  side  he  was  tenderly  kneeling 
His  arms  thrown  around  her  the  silence  she  broke: 
"Oh,  if  you  could  know 
How  dear  was  that  blow ! 
How  sweet  thus  to  die  by  your  hand !"  Then  she  spoke : 

"Come  nearer,  Witchaire ;  my  love,  do  you  remember 

At  my  earnest  plea  you  surrendered  my  vow 
That  night,  oh,  that  beautiful  night  in  September? 
That  valueless  gift  I  return  to  you  now ; 
No  thought  of  renown, 
No  dream  of  a  crown, 
To  you  evermore,  dear  Witchaire,  I  shall  bow ! 

"For  I  am  your  own,  and — and  you  are  far  dearer, — 

My  first  and — my  last — love "  her  soul  fled  apace, 

And  near  she  had  drawn  him,  still  nearer  and  nearer, 
Until  as  she  died  her  pale  lips  touched  his  face ; 
And  there  on  the  field 
Thus  perished  Matilde 
And  Morvan,  last  king  of  the  bold  Breton  race. 

Witchaire  sadly  buried  the  King  and  his  daughter, 

One  grave  held  them  both,  and  he  buried  them  there, 
And  he  was  supposed  to  have  died  in  the  slaughter ; 
His  lands  soon  reverted  to  Le  Debonnaire, 
The  decades  rolled  on, 
The  darkness  and  dawn, 

Till  men  had  forgotten  the  name  of  Witchaire. 
****** 

87 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

A  wretched  old  man  who  in  no  one  confided 
Far  back  as  the  memory  of  living  men  ran, 
Alone  in  a  hovel  near  by  had  resided, 

And  there  far  removed  from  the  presence  of  man, 
Unsought  and  unknown, 
As  seasons  had  flown, 
Had  lived,  people  said,  to  the  century  span. 

One  day  on  the  grave  of  the  Breton  King  lying, 

Which  then  was  no  more  than  a  low  grassy  mound, 
The  wretched  old  being,  then  helpless  and  dying, 
Alone  and  apparently  speechless,  was  found ; 
To  those  who  passed  by 
He  gave  no  reply, 
While  helplessly  perishing  there  on  the  ground. 

They  sought  to  remove  him  to  render  assistance 

And  spiritual  comfort  or  medical  care; 
Refusing  attention  he  offered  resistance 

And  clung  to  the  spot  with  the  strength  of  despair, 
As  sadly  he  sighed 
He  faintly  replied : 
"Oh,  let  me  alone,  pray,  for  I  am  Witchaire !" 

And  then  as  the  sun  in  the  west  was  declining, 
He  died  where  the  flowers  of  Brittany  grew ; 
They  opened  the  grave  where  Matilde  was  reclining, 
Where  oft  he  had  come  in  the  frost  and  the  dew, 
And  tenderly  there 
They  buried  Witchaire 

To  rest  with  the  bones  of  the  maid  that  he  slew. 
8,  17,  '08. 

88 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


JESS  AND  I. 

'Twas  sometime  in  March  of  the  year  'sixty-six 

Or  may  be  twelve  months  or  so  later, 
Unless  I  have  got  my  old  dates  in  a  mix, 
The  time  when  the  lightning  played  one  of  its  tricks 
And  split  our  old  shanty  and  scattered  the  bricks 
Reducing  the  timbers  to  kindling  and  sticks; 
We  could  not  be  in  a  more  desperate  fix 

Unless  in  a  volcanic  crater. 

The  house,  you  remember,  the  spring  we  moved  there 

Was  hardly  just  what  we  expected, 
The  studding  and  bricks  in  the  walls  were  all  bare 

And  things  were  quite  sadly  neglected. 

It  was  at  the  best  just  a  regular  fright, 

The  inside  was  perfectly  fearful, 
We  thought  if  we  changed  the  soft-brick  tint  to  white 

'Twould  look  just  a  wee  bit  more  cheerful. 

The  dingy  old  shackie  we  thought  was  too  small, 

And  hence  we'd  increase  its  dimension, 
We'd  do  it  that  spring  and  not  wait  till  the  fall 

To  build  us  a  little  extension. 

Our  cash  account  then  was  a  little  bit  shy, 

And  borrow  we  just  wouldn't  try  it, 
And  imported  lumber  was  dreadfully  high, 

So  high  that  we  just  couldn't  buy  it. 

89 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Somehow  Uncle  Jess  came  around  to  our  aid 

And  when  he  and  Father  consulted, 
They  soon  found  a  way  and  arrangements  were  made, 

And  no  further  worry  resulted. 

A  sawmill  was  running  down  there  on  the  creek, 
Somewhere  there  quite  near  Uncle  Jesse's; 

And  so  they  arranged  that  inside  of  a  week 
We'd  start  in  or  they'd  miss  their  guesses. 


And  then  they  arranged  it  as  quick  as  you  please, 
That  precious  old  Uncle  and  neighbor, 

That  friend  in  our  need,  said  that  he'd  give  the  trees 
And  Father  could  furnish  the  labor. 


Now,  wasn't  the  precious  old  fellow  a  trump? 

And  didn't  he  know  how  to  play  it? 
He  gave  us  the  lumber  and  he  kept  the  stump ; 

What  kindness  could  ever  repay  it? 


And  I  was  the  fellow  that  went  to  the  mill, 
Yes,  back  and  forth  times  without  number, 

I  hauled  down  a  log  from  the  top  of  the  hill 
Then  sailed  for  home  laden  with  lumber. 


Most  things  of  that  day  cling  to  memory  still, 
Though  Jess  and  I  hardly  were  men  quite, 

And  though  I'm  not  sure  who  was  running  that  mill, 
It  seems  to  me  it  was  Joe  Penquite. 

90 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

And  now  we  have  skirmished  and  cleared  up  the  way 

And  come  to  the  time  of  the  story 
When  two  jolly  urchins  took  part  in  a  play 

That  might  have  been  tragic  and  gory. 

I'd  been  to  the  mill  and  was  on  my  way  back 
And  stopped  as  I  passed  Uncle  Jesse's ; 

I  should  have  gone  on,  but  alas  and  alack  ! 
I  own  up,  the  guilty  confesses. 

Ere  long  Jess  and  I  were  absorbed  in  a  game, 
The  marbles  were  flying  and  popping, 

But  whether  we  won  or  we  lost  was  the  same, 
We  recked  not  and  thought  not  of  stopping. 


But  something  was  said  or  done,  I  forget  what, 
And  Jess  like  a  tiger  sprang  at  me, 

He  got  the  true  range  and  he  measured  the  spot 
And  like  a  brave  urchin  he  spat  me. 

I  cannot  tell  now,  I  forgot  long  ago, 
Just  whether  I  stood  or  went  sprawling, 

But  this  I  remember,  as  well  you  may  know, 
I  wanted  to  give  him  a  mauling. 


The  game  was  then  up  and  the  victory  won, 

The  story  was  suddenly  ended, 
And  I  was  clean  finished  and  ready  to  run 

And  deeply  and  sorely  offended. 

91 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

I  jumped  on  the  wagon  and  hurried  away 
Quite  fearful  that  Jess  would  yet  get  me, 

And  did  not  go  back  there  for  many  a  day 
Till  care  had  quite  sorely  beset  me. 

And  now  I  will  lead  you  a  gay  little  dance, 
Somewhat  in  the  style  of  carousers, 

And  call  to  your  memory  an  old  pair  of  pants, 
Or  if  you  prefer,  call  'em  trousers. 


Perhaps  you  remember  that  John  had  gone  west 

And  stayed  for  a  winter  or  summer, 
And  when  he  got  back  he  was  pretty  well  dressed, 

And  we  thought  that  John  was  a  hummer. 

And  John  was  a  hummer  in  more  ways  than  one, 

But  little  we  precious  fools  knew  it, 
When  we  saw  the  surface  we  thought  we  were  done 

But  John  could  see  clean  through  and  through  it 

John's  wardrobe  included  a  vest  and  some  pants 

That  I  thought  decidedly  fetching, 
I  thought  they  would  wear  out,  without  any  chance, 

Without  either  shrinking  or  stretching. 

But  just  like  the  bank  accounts  we  have  to-day, 

According  to  my  way  of  thinking, 
Those  fetching  old  pants  had  a  funny  old  way 

Of  most  inconveniently  shrinking. 

92 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

For  some  unknown  reason  they  grew  less  and  less, 

Perhaps  'twas  the  tailor  that  made  them; 
John  found  them  too  small  and  he  swapped  them  to  Jess, 

If  John  couldn't  wear  them  he'd  trade  them. 

But  Jess  soon  found  out  he  was  in  the  same  box, 
Those  pants  would  hear  nothing  of  stopping, 

They  shrank  till  they  came  to  the  top  of  his  socks, 
Then  Jess  too  was  ready  for  swapping. 


And  Jess  in  his  trouble  came  straightway  to  me, 
I  told  him,  Oh,  yes,  I  would  buy  them, 

I  didn't  know  what  kind  of  fit  it  would  be, 
But  still  I  would  take  them  and  try  them. 


Those  funny  old  trousers  the  shorter  they  grew, 

Somewhat  as  a  man  drinking  cider, 
Grew  just  a  bit  thicker  when  measured  straight  through, 

They  seemed  to  grow  wider  and  wider. 

I  got  my  old  trousers  and  stowed  'em  away, 

I  stowed  'em  and  almost  forgot  'em, 
And  put  on  the  shrinkers  so  brave  and  so  gay 

And  turned  'em  up  chic  at  the  bottom. 

You  have  an  old  photograph  hidden  away 

Concealed  from  my  nephews  and  nieces 
That  shows  the  old  trousers  that  I  thought  so  gay 

And  crosswise  the  jolly  old  creases. 

93 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

The  suit  was  a  pretty  good  bargain,  but  still, 
Though  now  it  seems  funny  to  say  it, 

When  we  got  around  to  consider  the  bill 
I  didn't  have  money  to  pay  it. 

And  when  the  day  came  that  I  went  to  the  mill, 
When  Jess  thought  I  needed  a  banging, 

That  bill  for  the  trousers  was  unsettled  still, 
That  bill  on  the  hook  was  still  hanging. 

I  made  up  my  mind  on  that  tragical  day, 
Though  it  may  seem  odd  I  should  say  it, 

That  Jess  should  apologize  ere  I  would  pay, 
And  if  he  did  not,  I'd  not  pay  it. 

Thus  things  drifted  on  for  some  five  or  six  years, 

Years  full  of  hard  labor  and  hustle, 
I  felt  little  worry  about  my  arrears, 

But  Jess  was  developing  muscle. 

The  surface  was  calm  and  the  sky  was  serene, 

And  nothing  appeared  to  be  doing, 
However,  beyond  the  horizon  unseen 

A  storm  was  all  quietly  brewing. 

I  went  on  my  way  without  worry  or  fear, 
But,  gentle  folks,  that  was  a  blunder, 

That  storm  was  to  burst  from  a  sky  that  was  clear, 
And  burst  like  a  clap  of  wild  thunder. 

94 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

One  Spring  Emma  Kelly  appeared  on  the  scene 
And  somehow  it  came  that  I  met  her, 

I  thought  her  quite  fair  and  not  over  nineteen, 
And  somehow  I  couldn't  forget  her. 

So  over  I  went  and  enjoyed  her  smile, 

And  while  in  the  house  I  was  wooing, 
Just  outside  the  yard  there  beside  the  wood-pile 

Some  very  odd  things  had  been  doing. 

For  Jess  was  out  there  and  was  not  sawing  wood 

Nor  whistling  or  singing  so  gaily, 
But  with  a  stern  look  that  foreboded  no  good 

He  cut  him  a  solid  shillaly. 

And  out  in  the  woods  with  a  dangerous  look 
He  stood  near  the  road  to  waylay  me, 

He'd  get  me  at  last  and  he'd  bring  me  to  book, 
I'd  settle  the  bill  or  he'd  slay  me. 

I  finished  my  call  and  was  going  away, 

Was  mounted  and  ready  for  riding, 
When  Uncle  Jess  called  me  and  came  out  to  say 

That  Jess  was  out  there  and  in  hiding. 

He  told  me  the  rest  in  a  voice  plain  and  clear 

And  with  no  suggestion  of  honey, 
Then  said  in  a  voice  that  was  rather  severe: 

"Why  haven't  you  paid  him  his  money?" 

95 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

The  thing-  was  so  boldly  and  suddenly  sprung 
That  I  was  just  half  way  dumbfounded. 

My  nerves  for  a  moment  were  half  way  unstrung, 
I  feared  that  Jess  had  me  surrounded. 

I  told  Uncle  Jess  in  a  straightforward  way, 
But  not  with  much  snap  did  I  say  it, 

That  Jess  must  apologize  ere  I  would  pay, 
And  then,  and  no  sooner,  I'd  pay  it. 

And  then  I  could  see  the  wild  storm  in  the  skies, 
The  dear  man  was  mad  and  I  knew  it, 

He  said,  as  I  saw  there  was  fire  in  his  eyes : 
"Well,  now  sir,  he  never  will  do  it !" 

In  substance  he  plainly  proceeded  to  say, 

I  like  you  and  will  not  desert  you, 
You'd  better  go  home  by  a  roundabout  way, 

He's  mad  and  I  fear  he  will  hurt  you. 


Just  then  I  was  anxious  to  go  in  a  rush, 
For  I  didn't  want  a  good  baiting, 

And  glanced  quite  uneasily  down  at  the  brush 
Where  Jess  and  his  club  were  in  waiting. 

I  knew  an  old  road  running  to  the  northeast, 
Just  then  any  road  was  worth  trying, 

I  tightened  the  rein  and  I  spurred  up  the  beast 
And  down  through  the  woods  I  went  flying. 

96 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

When  Uncle  Jess  brought  me  to  book  for  the  bill 

And  scored  me  for  having  delayed  it, 
To  save  me  from  getting  another  good  grill 

I  didn't  wait  long  till  I  paid  it. 

I  think  it  was  Father  delivered  the  cash, 

I  well  know  that  I  didn't  take  it, 
That  would  have  been  baring  my  head  to  the  lash 

Or  daring  a  fellow  to  break  it. 

There  comes  a  sad  day  into  every  one's  life, 

Unless  he's  a  wee  bit  celestial, 
That  leads  into  ways  of  contention  and  strife, 

Or  ways  a  wee  bit  more  terrestrial. 

I  think  my  bent  toward  those  devious  ways 
Must  always  have  been  quite  potential, 

And  oft  when  I  think  of  my  bloody  forays 
It  seems  to  have  been  pestilential. 

My  story  is  done,  for  the  sequel  ask  Reese, 
For  he  knew  the  thing  needed  righting, 

And  he  volunteered  to  negotiate  peace 
Or  Jess  and  I  would  have  died  fighting. 


97 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


A  NIGHT  IN  1865. 
Prelude. 

Oh,  sing  me  the  songs  of  the  dear  olden  time, 

The  songs  of  a  measure  so  cheery ; 
So  rousing  the  music,  so  merry  the  rhyme, 
So  ringing  and  joyous  the  jingle  and  chime, 
So  hopeful  the  heart  when  the  hill  was  to  climb, 
We  gazed  at  its  heights  with  a  faith  all  sublime, 

And  thought  not  to  faint  or  grow  weary. 

Oh,  give  me  the  days  of  the  long,  long  ago, 

The  days  without  touches  of  sadness ; 
The  days  when  we  dreamed  not  of  sorrow  or  woe, 
The  days  when  the  spirit  was  all  in  a  glow, 
When  warmly  and  wildly  the  blood  was  aflow, 
When  earth  was  rose-tinted  with  gladness. 

Oh,  give  me  the  hours  when  our  childhood  was  nigh, 

When  pleasant  and  safe  was  the  sailing, 
When  never  a  storm-cloud  was  seen  in  the  sky, 
And  never  the  heart  was  disturbed  with  a  sigh, 
When  smoothly  and  safely  the  moments  could  fly, 
And  calmly,  serenely  the  seasons  went  by 
When  happiness  came  without  failing. 

98 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Oh,  bring  me  the  friends  of  the  long  ago  day, 
The  friends  that  were  true  and  confiding ; 

Sweet  memories  of  them  in  a  fadeless  array 

Abide  in  my  heart  and  I  bid  them  to  stay ; 

Oh,  theirs  is  the  friendship  that  fades  not  away, 
The  friendship  that's  true  and  abiding. 

Oh,  bring  me  the  loved  ones  that  then  were  so  near, 

Whose  warm  and  affectionate  greeting 
In  tenderest  cadences  fell  on  the  ear, 
Relieved  every  sorrow  and  dried  every  tear, 
Whose  greeting  so  dear  we  shall  never  more  hear 
Till  hearts  shall  have  ceased  from  their  beating. 


THE   NIGHT. 

Twas  early  in  March  in  the  year  'sixty-five, 

To  be  more  exact,  the  first  Sunday, 
I  yoked  up  the  oxen  and  started  to  drive 
To  Cooper  and  thought  that  if  I  was  alive 
And  did  not  get  lost  or  break  down,  I  would  strive 
To  cover  the  distance  and  may  be  arrive 

Some  time  in  the  evening  on  Monday. 

Not  sooner  than  one  and  not  later  than  two 

I  started  northeast  o'er  the  prairie ; 
The  mud  was  quite  deep  and  the  roads  were  all  new, 
The  wet  places  many,  the  dry  places  few, 
The  oxen  were  leary,  I  somewhat  so,  too, 
My  whistling  was  chic  but  the  ring  was  not  true, 
I  tried  to  be  brave  but  I  felt  pretty  blue, 

And  vainly  I  tried  to  be  merry. 

99 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

The  road  ran  northeast  to  the  house  where  Sam  Shanks 

Had  moved  by  the  year  'sixty-seven; 

Then  north  through  the  lane,  then  northeast  near  the  banks 
Of  streams  without  culverts  of  stone  or  of  planks, 
Where  mud  struck  the  oxen  half  way  to  the  flanks, 
Then  north  by  the  church  that  stands  first  in  the  ranks 

Of  places  that  point  us  to  heaven. 


To  me  it  was  only  a  church  by  the  way, 

No  more  than  a  peach  or  an  apple; 
A  place  to  forget  in  an  hour  or  a  clay; 
So  whistling  a  tune  as  1  tried  to  be  gay, 
I  turned  from  the  graves  where  departed  ones  lay 
And  dreamed  not  how  often  our  footsteps  would  stray 
In  winter's  wild  storm  or  in  blossoming  May, 

Back  to  our  dear  Blackwater  Chapel. 

I  traveled  along  at  a  time-killing  pace, 

All  thought  of  celerity  scorning, 
I  figured  but  little  with  time  or  with  space, 
For  there  was  no  need  to  make  much  of  a  race 
To  get  before  dark  to  Tom  Sitlington's  place 

Where  I  was  to  stop  till  the  morning. 


Right  here  I  presume  it  is  proper  to  state 

The  oxen — our  old  Tom  and  Jerry — 
Were  pokey  and  slow  and  they  went  such  a  gait 
That  it  was  my  sad  and  unfortunate  fate 
To  reach  the  Tom  Sitlington  farmhouse  so  late 
That  darkness  was  over  the  prairie. 

100 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

The  Sitlingtons,  then,  I  remember  full  well, 

Lived  south  of  the  road  quite  a  distance, 
Twas  almost  a  quarter,  I  cannot  just  tell, 
And  just  by  the  road  there  meandered  pell  mell 
A  branch  that  long  after  a  long  rainy  spell 
When  rain  in  unusual  quantities  fell, 
Flowed  on  in  surprising  persistence. 

The  road  that  turned  off  there,  that  I  was  to  take, 

Was  plain  as  the  nose  on  your  face,  sir; 
I  saw  the  house  plainly,  knew  they  were  awake, 
The  lights  were  all  burning, — this  tale  is  no  fake — 
I  knew  it  was  Tom's,  there  could  be  no  mistake, 
Yet  'spite  of  all  this,  sir,  and  this  takes  the  cake, 
I  knowingly,  willfully  made  such  a  break — 
Drove  on  by  the  Sitlington  place,  sir. 

The  sky  was  all  murky,  the  clouds  growing  black, 

The  wind  was  just  howling  and  wailing; 
A  leaky  old  overcoat  covered  my  back, 
I'd  nothing  to  eat,  not  a  bite  of  hard  tack, 
But  giving  the  oxen  a  pretty  sharp  whack 
1  tried  to  decide  as  I  followed  the  track 
How  soon  'twould  be  raining  or  hailing. 

You  probably  think  I  should  stop  and  explain 

This  very  unique  situation  ; 
I  fear  explanation  will  all  be  in  vain, 
You  likely  will  think  that  I  hardly  was  sane, 
I  therefore  will  give  you  in  words  that  arc  plain 

A  still  more  unique  explanation. 

101 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

I  stopped  at  a  neighbor's  just  back  on  the  way 

To  get  some  desired  information ; 
He  gave  it  quite  kindly,  then  went  on  to  say 
That  Sitlington's  daughter  had  marnel  that  d;iy, 
That  quite  a  big  crowd  of  the  young  and  the  gay 
Were  meeting  that  evening  to  finish  the  play; 
The  house  was  all  lighted  to  make  a  display, 
The  guests  were  all  gathered  in  brilliant  array, 

And  I?    I  had  no  invitation. 

But  that  didn't  matter,  as  well  you  may  know ; 

I  knew  it  would  be  an  intrusion, 
And  I  was  quite  awkward,  and  bashful,  and  slow, 
And  how  in  the  world  could  a  poor  fellow  go, 
All  muddy,  unkempt,  and  the  picture  of  woe, 
To  mingle  with  matrons,  young  ladies  and  beaux? 
I  made  up  my  mind  and  I  flatly  said  no, 

And  wouldn't  revise  my  conclusion. 

I  felt  all  broke  up,  I  could  hardly  tell  why, 

I  wavered  in  doubt  and  vexation ; 
I  looked  at  the  branch  that  meandered  close  by, 
1*  might  not  be  deep,  but  I'd  rather  not  try, 
I  looked  at  the  house,  then  I  looked  at  the  sky, 
I  thought  of  the  night  and  I  heaved  a  deep  sigh, 
I  whipped  up  the  beasts  and  I  mosied  right  by, 

So  there's  my  unique  explanation. 

Down  close  to  Sam  Sprecher's  I  stopped  in  a  lane, 

Got  out  and  unhitched  Tom  and  Jerry; 
I  fed  them  and  fastened  them  tight  with  a  chain 

102 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

And  said  we  were  there  and  we  there  would  remain 
Till  daylight  was  come,  if  it  rained  let  it  rain, 
But  there  we  would  camp  and  be  merry. 

I  got  in  the  wagon,  rolled  up  in  a  lump, 

And  wondered  what  next  would  be  doing. 
I  wouldn't  have  given  a  tiddle-de-clump 
To  send  the  stocks  downward  or  up  with  a  jump, 
For  I  was  beginning  to  feel  like  a  chump, 
And  guessing  the  weather  would  soon  play  a  trump 
I  feared  it  would  show  us  a  pretty  bad  slump, 
For  something  appeared  to  be  brewing. 


I  sat  up  awhile,  then  lay  down  on  the  seat, 

But  found  it  too  short  and  too  narrow ; 
I  buttoned  my  coat  and  I  drew  up  my  feet, 
And  thus  I  made  ready  for  snow  or  for  sleet, 
Well  knowing  whatever  might  come  I  should  meet, 
Must  swallow  the  bitter  along  with  the  sweet, 
But  wished  I  had  been  just  a  mite  more  discreet, 
While  ceaselesslv,  coldly  the  southeast  wind  beat 
Until  I  was  chilled  to  the  marrow. 


At  last  I  grew  weary  and  dropped  off  to  sleep, 

And  left  my  regrets  and  complaining. 
How  long  dear  old  Somnus  was  minded  to  keep 
Me  wrapt  in  a  slumber  so  dreamless  and  deep 
That  nought  could  awake  me  to  worry  or  weep 
I  know  not,  but  know  that  I  felt  pretty  cheap 
On  waking  to  find  it  was  raining. 

103 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Sometimes  it  is  best  that  we  do  what  we  do 

At  once  and  not  wait  for  reflection, 
So  down  from  that  seat  in  a  jiffy  I  flew, 
Got  under  it  quick,  'twas  the  best  that  I  knew, 
Lay  down  on  my  side  as  the  rain  trickled  through, 
While  wondering  if  ever  a  chap  was  so  blue, 

Then  fell  into  sad  retrospection. 

I  lay  there  as  grumpy  as  any  old  mule 

Within  Uncle  Sam's  whole  dominion, 
I  figured  in  logic  of  every  known  school, 
I  figured  by  every  logician-made  rule, 
And  there  as  I  lay  with  my  side  in  a  pool, 
While  inwardly  hot  although  outwardly  cool, 
I  wisely  concluded  that  I  was  a  fool, 
And  never  have  changed  my  opinion. 

It  likely  would  tire  you  if  I  should  relate 

The  thoughts  that  fought  wildly  for  voicing; 
But  ere  I  shall  close  I  quite  briefly  will  state 
That  all  I  could  do  was  to  lie  there  and  wait, 
Reproaching  myself  and  bewailing  my  fate 
Till  morning  should  come  and  the  clouds  dissipate. 
I  went  to  Sam  Sprecher's,  my  breakfast  I  ate, 
The  coffee,  the  ham,  and  the  biscuits  were  great, 
Then  sadder,  some  wiser,  a  little  bit  late, 
I  went  on  my  way  at  the  same  steady  gait, 
But  with  precious  little  rejoicing. 
10,  17,  '07. 


104 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

A  VISITOR'S  STORY. 
(From  "The  Trestle  Board.") 

We  had  finished  the  refreshments,  many  speeches  had  been 

made, 

Many  stories  had  been  told  us  of  a  light  or  sombre  shade, 
When  we  called  upon  a  Brother  we  had  never  seen  before, 
Who  was  visiting  our  Lodge,  to  tell  a  story  if  no  more. 

He  was  modest  and  a  stranger  and  he  asked  to  be  excused, 
But  the  Brethren  kept  insisting,  said  they  wouldn't  be  refused. 
Being  pressed  to  give  his  story  he  consented  and  began, 
And  was  hailed  with  acclamation,  and  'twas  thus  his  story 
ran: 


I  was  hunting  in  a  region  isolated,  drear  and  cold, 
It  was  years  ago,  far  distant,  in  a  region  famed  for  gold, 
All  alone  in  the  Sierras  with  no  friendly  face  to  greet, 
When  a  raging  storm  admonished  me  to  seek  a  safe  retreat. 

I  concluded  to  take  refuge  'neath  a  friendly  spreading  tree, 

When  a  solitary  cabin  near  at  hand  I  chanced  to  see. 

Gladdened  by  its  promised  shelter  I  betook  me  thence  in 
haste, 

When  a  gruesome  object  stopped  me  there  upon  the  moun- 
tain waste. 

105 


Stretched  beside  the  narrow  pathway,  bleaching  in  the  mountain 

air, 

There  a  skeleton  was  lying,  nothing  left  but  bones  and  hair. 
I  was  startled  and  stood  gazing  for  some  moments,  lost  in 

thought, 
When  I  felt  the  dashing  rainfall  and  the  lonely  cabin  sought. 

It  was  in  a  fair  condition,  had  been  tenantless  long  time, 

Black  and  charred  the  front  by  burning,  hinting  at  a  hidden 

crime. 

Swinging  on  its  creaking  hinges  half  way  open  stood  the  door, 
Unimpaired  the  little  window  where  the  light  streamed  on  the 

floor. 

Then  I  entered,  closed  the  door  and  found  the  room  was  clean 

and  dry ; 
At  one  side  there  was  a  fireplace,  though  'twas  neither  wide 

nor  high, 

On  another  a  rude  bunk,  and  on  some  shelves  a  row  of  books 
Which  had  passed  their  days  of  usefulness,  to  judge  them  by 

their  looks. 

This  was  all,  except  a  table  and  a  stool  that  had  three  legs, 
So  I  doffed  my  hat  and  knapsack  which  I  hung  up  on  some  pegs, 
Made  a  fire  to  dry  my  clothing  and  sat  down  to  my  repast 
Which  I  carried  in  my  knapsack,  while  still  louder  howled  the 
blast. 

When  I  finished,  with  some  leisure  I  began  to  look  around, 
When  an  old  and  well-worn  Bible  on  the  highest  shelf  I  found. 
Turning  o'er  the  leaves  at  random,  soon  some  writing  caught 

my  eye, 
Scribbled  on  the  narrow  margin,  also  bloody  stains  near  by. 

106 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

This  was  written  plainly:  "Tommy,  look  beneath  the  Other 

Lights." 

Then  I  tried  to  comprehend  it,  in  my  fancy's  wildest  flights. 
There    it    was    in    plainest    English,    and    the    signature  was 

"George," 
In  that  long  deserted  cabin,  in  that  lonely  mountain  gorge. 

But  I  soon  gave  up  the  problem  and  continued  to  explore, 
To  discern  if  further  secrets  lurked  within  that  cabin  door. 
I  soon  found  that  there  were  traces  of  a  tragedy  so  dark 
That  my  blood  ran  cold  within  me  as  I  traced  each  blood- 
stained mark. 


There  were  blood-stains  on  the  woodwork  though  bedimmed 

and  dulled  by  time, 

There  were  bullet  holes  in  plenty  to  reveal  a  tragic  crime. 
In  the  table  where  my  frugal,  scanty  supper  I  had  spread 
I  discovered  many  bullets  and  a  broken  arrow  head. 

When  I  found  the  broken  arrow  I  began  to  see  the  light — 
The  poor  miner  was  surrounded  and  had  fallen  in  the  fight. 
But,  then,  why  had  not  the  Indians  burned  the  cabin  to  the 

ground  ? 
And  why  too  were  all  its  contents  in  such  perfect  order  found  ? 

And  was  that  the  miner's  skeleton  that  I  had  stumbled  o'er? 
And  was  that  the  miner's  writing  in  that  Bible  by  the  door? 
Had  he  written  that  request  some  hidden  meaning  to  unfold? 
And  what  was  that  hidden  meaning,  would  the  secret  e'er  be 
told? 

107 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

So  I  took  the  Bible  clown  again  and  tried  but  tried  in  vain 
To  unlock  the  mystic  puzzle  till  my  head  was  racked  with  pain; 
And  I  read  the  printed  page  in  hopes  of  getting  at  some  clue, 
It  was  twelfth  Ecclesiastes,  and  familiar,  well  I  knew. 

But  too  dull  to  see  relation,  though  I  should  have  seen  it  there, 
I  was  thoroughly  discouraged  and  I  gave  up  in  despair. 
So  I  tossed  myself  upon  the  bunk  and  soon  was  sound  asleep, 
While  the  storm  was  raging  'round  me  like  the  raging  of  the 
deep. 

In  the  night  the  storm  abated  and  the  stars  appeared  on  high ; 
When  I  woke  the  birds  were  singing  and  the  sun  was  in  the  sky. 
While  I  lay  and  pondered  over  what  I'd  seen  the  night  before, 
A  broad  beam  of  yellow  sunlight  slowly  crept  across  the  floor. 

As  it  penetrated  further  in  the  corner  of  the  room, 
And  expelled  the  morning  dimness  and  the  slow-receding  gloom, 
And  unconsciously  I  watched  it,  I  beheld  another  sight 
That  so  thrilled  me  that  I  bounded  from  the  bunk  and  stood 
upright. 

On  the  floor  close  in  the  corner  brightened  by  the  sunbeam's 

glare, 
Rudely  carved  there  was  the  figure  of  the  Compass  and  the 

Square. 
Quick  as  lightning  all  the  meaning  of  that  writing  thrilled  me 

through, 
"Look  beneath  the  Other  Lights,"  and  there  they  were  before 

my  view. 

108 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Down  I  went  upon  my  knees  and  quickly  tore  the  board  away, 
Lifted  from  its  place  a  stone  and  there  a  faded  letter  lay. 
It  was  dim  and  hardly  legible,  all  covered  o'er  with  mold, 
And  beneath  the  faded  paper  was  a  jar  of  shining  gold. 

I  could  scarcely  read  the  writing,  being  written  in  a  scrawl, 
As  if  done  in  haste  or  danger  of  the  deadly  rifle  ball, 
As  if  under  strong  emotion,  interspersed  with  sobs  and  sighs, 
But  I  read  the  words  that  follow  while  the  tears  were  in  my 
eyes: 

"Tom,  the  Indians  have  surrounded  me,  I'm  wounded  and  must 

die; 

If  you  live  to  find  this  treasure  which  I've  managed  to  lay  by, 
Send  it  to  my  little  daughter,  little  Mary,  sweet  and  fair, 
She's  at  Holden,  Massachusetts,  Tom.       I  ask  this  on  the 

square." 

Then  there  followed  a  "God  bless  you,"  and  a  last  and  long 

farewell, 
And  the  name  was  signed,  "George  Langdon."    Nothing  more 

the  page  could  tell. 

Leaping  to  my  feet  in  rapture  and  so  thrilled  with  this  appeal, 
I  held  up  my  hand  to  heaven  and  exclaimed  for  woe  or  weal : 

"Rest  in  peace,  my  Brother  Langdon,  your  dear  child  shall  have 

her  gold, 
Though  I  go  on  foot  to  bear  it  and  this  sheet  bedimmed  with 

mold." 

And  in  truth  there  was  a  fortune  in  that  jar  of  glittering  ore, 
And  along  with  it  the  Bible  from  that  tragic  scene  I  bore. 

109 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

But  my  story  is  not  ended.    Near  the  cabin  on  the  ground, 
By  its  side  a  rusty  gun,  another  skeleton  I  found. 
My  imagination  sought  the  truth  and  thus  I  worked  it  out, 
George  and  Tom  were  fellow  miners  and  their  mines  were  close 
about. 

They  had  trod  the  Oriental  road  together  and  full  well 
Loved  and  trusted  one  another  till  that  fatal  day  befell. 
Tom  had  gone  off  on  an  errand,  and  while  waiting  his  return 
George  was  set  upon  by  Indians  who  had  come  to  kill  and  burn. 

He  defended  his  possessions  till  he  knew  his  end  was  nigh, 
Then  he  wrote  these  strange  directions  when  he  felt  that  he 

must  die. 

He  would  save  his  little  hoardings,  fruit  of  many  a  toilsome  day, 
For  his  darling  little  daughter  in  her  home  so  far  away. 

So  he  wrote  those  mystic  words  upon  the  margin  of  the  leaf 
Where  he  knew  his  friend  would  turn  to  seek  condolence  in  his 

grief, 
Knowing  well  that  trusty  friends  alone  its  purport  e'er  could 

read, 
And  that  only  trusted  Brethren  would  his  last  request  e'er  heed. 

Then  the  Indians  fired  the  cabin,  but  the  fire  went  out  by 

chance, 

Or  a  waterspout  extinguished  it  and  stopped  their  savage  dance, 
Then  they  met  and  murdered  Tom  and  left  his  body  there 

exposed, 
George  crawled  forth  for  help  and  perished  and  the  tragedy 

was  closed. 

no 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

t 

Then  I  brought  their  bones  together  and  a  little  grave  I  made, 
And  I  buried  them  in  sadness  there  within  the  cabin's  shade. 
And  I  read  the  solemn  Scripture  "then  shall  dust  return  to  du.-t, 
And  the  spirit  shall  return  to  Him"  whose  ways  are  always  just. 

They  had  traveled  the  same  rugged  road,  together  they  had  d:ed, 
So  I  thought  it  but  befitting  that  they  rest  there  side  by  si-k, 
And  the  board  on  which  the  "Other  Lights"  were  rudely  carved 

by  George, 
I  set  up,  and  left  them  sleeping  in  that  lonely  mountain  gorge. 

In  due  time  I  found  the  daughter  now  to  woman's  stature 

grown, 
With  her  aunt  'gainst  want  and  sickness  waging  warfare  all 

alone ; 

In  her  hands  I  placed  her  fortune,  every  ounce  of  shining  gold, 
And  the  Bible  with  the  letter  covered  o'er  with  stains  and  mold. 

Still  my  story  is  not  ended,  for  the  best  is  yet  to  tell, 
I  remained  to  lend  assistance  till  I  knew  the  daughter  well ; 
So  attractive  did  I  find  her  that  I  could  not  leave  her  side 
Till  the  Mason's  darling  daughter  had  become  my  lovely  bride. 
10,  10,  '07. 


Ill 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


OLD  SUMACH. 

Oh  !  sumach,  dear  sumach  that  stood  by  the  wood, 

Where  prairie  and  wood  came  together; 
How  precious  the  spot  where  the  old  shackie  stood, 
'Way  back  in  the  days  when  the  people  were  good, 
When  people  delighted  to  live  as  they  should, 
As  people  could  live  at  this  day  if  they  would, 
The  days  when  we  had  all  the  fun  that  we  could, 
No  matter  how  stormy  the  weather. 


There  bonnie  dear  Tom  wore  a  white  overcoat, 
My  pants  were  of  jeans  bright  and  yellow; 

And  Sam's  jolly  smile  always  captured  the  vote, 

And  with  his  red  hair  was  a  sure  antidote 

To  blues  and  the  like  in  those  dear  days  remote, 
For  Sam  was  a  jolly  good  fellow. 

I  went  to  their  home  and  we  studied  at  night 

And  toiled  o'er  the  work  of  the  morning; 
For  Tommy  was  always  so  quick  and  so  bright 
He'd  capture  a  thought  when  'twas  clear  out  of  sight 
And  show  us  dull  boys  we  were  not  in  the  fight, 
He  cleared  up  the  way  and  he  let  in  the  light, 
He  brought  down  the  game  and  he  brought  it  down  right 

With  never  a  moment  of  warning. 

112 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

And  close  by  my  side  all  the  long  winter  through 
Sat  Joe  with  a  heart  warm  and  tender; 

More  genial  each  day  and  more  joyous  he  grew, 

And  closer  and  closer  together  we  drew, 

Cut  capers  and  didoes  as  boys  always  do. 

Cut  holes  in  the  wall  so  the  road  we  could  view, 

Cut  Gordian  knots  and  our  book  covers,  too, 
And  labored  with  tenses  and  gender. 

There  ne'er  was  a  boy  with  a  heart  in  his  breast 

More  genial,  more  loving,  no,  never ; 
He  gave  to  the  world  what  was  brightest  and  best, 
A  word  and  a  smile  to  the  sore  and  distressed, 
With  bonnie  good  cheer  his  whole  soul  was  possessed; 
None  ever  was  sad  when  dear  Joe  was  his  guest, 
Dear  Joe  who  is  now  in  the  Mansions  of  Rest 

Where  brightness  and  cheer  dwell  forever. 

And  then  there  was  Polk,  dear  delightful  old  Polk, 

With  smiles  and  with  dimples  a  plenty ; 
The  handsomest  man  among  all  our  dear  folk, 
The  boy  against  whom  ne'er  a  word  was  e'er  spoke, 
The  boy  with  a  character  sturdy  as  oak, 
The  man,  I  opine,  who  has  never  gone  broke, 
(Dear  bonnie  old  fellow,  I'm  speaking  no  joke, 
So  can't  you  just  loan  me  a  twenty?) 

And  Mattie  was  there,  speak  the  word  soft  and  low, 

Lest  others  than  angels  should  hear  it; 
Fair  Mattie  that  only  the  angels  may  know, 
Too  gentle  to  tarry  with  mortals  below, 

"3 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

She  went  when  the  earth  was  white-mantled  with  snow, 
She  went  where  the  rarest  and  fairest  ones  go, 
So  pure  and  so  gentle  her  spirit. 

And  Bettie,  so  quiet,  so  noble  and  true, 

And  Emma  so  bright  and  so  clever; 
And  Lizzie,  so  bonnie,  with  eyes  that  were  blue, 
Her  beautiful  sister  who  came  there  once,  too, 
Oh !  she  was  the  fairest — but  this  will  not  do, 
For  this  is  a  story  I'll  never  tell  you. 

For  love  or  for  money,  no,  never. 

And  Robert,  dear  Robert,  magnificent  boy, 

A  boy  wholly  given  to  duty ; 
A  boy  in  whose  heart  there  was  nought  of  alloy, 
Whose  whole  aim  it  was  to  disseminate  joy, 
The  right  to  build  up  and  the  wrong  to  destroy, 
And  never  to  hinder,  to  vex  or  annoy, 

A  life  unsurpassed  in  its  beauty. 

And  William,  my  best  friend  of  all  in  that  day, 

A  friend,  too,  of  all  round  about  him ; 
We  roamed  in  the  wood  when  our  spirits  were  gay, 
We  sat  side  by  side  when  the  rest  were  at  play, 
We  walked  in  affection  that  nothing  could  stay, 
Till  death's  cruel  summons  called  William  away, 

And  lone  has  the  way  been  without  him. 

Oh !  jolly  old  rollicking,  rickety  shack, 
The  dearest  old  spot  on  the  planet ; 
The  place  of  all  places  to  which  I  look  back, 
Where  even  the  slowest  went  lickety-whack ; 

114 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

I'd  rather  tread  there  though  'twere  long  gone  to  rack 
Than  dwell  at  the  top  of  a  sky-scraping  stack 
Constructed  of  marble  and  granite. 

Oh  !  jolly  old  weather-stained,  storm-beaten  shack, 

With  sumach  and  hazel  brush  near  it; 
With  boards  up  and  down  and  a  strip  on  each  crack, 
Though  roasting  in  front  while  we  froze  at  the  back ; 
There  all  was  contentment  with  nothing  to  lack, 

A  thousand  sweet  memories  endear  it. 

Oh !  glad  were  the  days  when  we  knew  the  old  shack, 

And  dear  were  the  hearts  that  were  in  it; 
The  Doctor  possessed  the  desirable  knack 
To  win  every  heart  though  his  rule  was  not  slack, 
We  always  pushed  forward  and  never  turned  back, 
We  pulled  for  dear  life  every  minute. 

The  Doctor,  well  posted  and  sharp  as  a  tack, 

Detested  a  sham  or  a  swindle; 

When  noon-day  was  come  and  we'd  eaten  our  snack 
And  finished  the  hour  with  our  racket  and  clack, 
And  Doctor  was  ready  to  summon  us  back 
He  took  down  a  stick  that  he  kept  on  a  rack 
And  larruped  the  side  of  the  bonnie  old  shack, 
And  larruped  again  with  a  lickety-whack 

Till  in  we  came  lickety-brindle. 

Oh !  riproaring,  racy,  delightful  old  shack, 

Where  never  was  envy  or  scorning ; 
Not  far  from  threescore  now,  alas  and  alack, 

"5 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Our  weary  old  burdens  we  soon  shall  unpack, 
And  enter  the  valley  whence  no  one  comes  back, 
To  sleep  till  that  glorious  morning. 

And  oh !  when  we  wake,  when  we  wake  may  we  see, 

Up  there  where  no  more  we  shall  sever, 
Among  the  bright  mansions  for  you  and  for  me, 
One  dear  little  shackie,  so  bonnie  and  wee, 
With  holes  in  the  walls  and  a  boy  full  of  glee, 
A  fair  little  maiden  from  sorrow  set  free, 
And  dear  ones  to  dwell  in  that  home  that  shall  be, 
To  dwell  there  forever  and  ever. 

Dear  vanished  old  sumach  and  vanishing  crowd, 

How  tender  the  ties  that  then  bound  us; 
Away  from  the  giddy,  the  gay  and  the  proud. 
Away  from  the  learned,  the  wise  and  endowed, 
Away  from  earth's  symphonies  swelling  and  loud, 
We  soon  shall  have  nought  but  the  pall  and  the  shroud, 
With  shadows  and  darkness  around  us. 

How  warm  are  our  hearts  and  the  feelings  that  swell, 

How  tender  the  ties  that  still  bind  us; 
We'll  soon  reunite  and  forever  shall  dwell 
With  loved  ones  redeemed,  oh,  glad  story  to  tell, 
And  dwelling  with  Him  who  all  things  doeth  well, 

Leave  shadows  and  darkness  behind  us. 

The  years  that  have  fled  since  the  long  ago  day 

We  left  the  old  schoolhouse  in  sorrow, 
The  friends  kind  and  true  that  have  vanished  away 
Like  flowers  that  blossom  so  soon  to  decay, 

116 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

The  hearts  that  in  winter  are  warm  as  in  May, 
That  cling  to  us  fondly  for  yea  or  for  nay, 
All  may  be  forgotten,  but  sumach  will  stay 
And  live  in  our  memories  forever  and  aye, 
Whatever  befall  us  to-morrow. 

How  dim  and  uncertain  the  vista  appears 

Back  where  the  clear  schooldays  are  sleeping ; 
The  whole  way  is  strewn  with  the  wreckage  of  years, 
Unrealized  hopes  and  unjustified  fears, 
With  laughter  and  joy  and  with  sorrow  and  tears, 
With  sunlight,  with  shadows  and  weeping. 

Oh !  springtime  of  life,  precious  heyday  of  youth, 

Thy  flowrets  forever  are  faded ; 
We  sigh  for  their  fragrance,  but  vainly,  in  sooth, 
Till  all  be  renewed  in  the  Gardens  of  Truth 

In  realms  that  death  never  invaded. 

And  now  as  I  listen  it  seems  that  I  hear, 

While  for  the  old  days  I  am  sighing. 
An  echo  of  music  so  sweet  to  the  ear, 
As  softly  it  floats  from  that  far-away  year, 
Awaking  old  memories  tender  and  dear 
Of  loved  ones  then  youthful  but  now  in  the  sere; 
The  music  is  silent,  bereft  of  its  cheer, 

And  soon  will  the  echoes  be  dying. 

The  beauty  of  morning  long,  long  ago  fled, 

The  shadows  of  evening  are  growing; 
The  moments  of  springtime  and  summer  are  sped, 

117 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Ere  long  will  the  winter  frosts  fall  on  the  head, 
Ere  long  shall  we  hear  the  grim  harvester's  tread 
And  reap,  as  a  sage  has  so  truthfully  said, 
The  harvest  we  long  have  been  sowing. 

And  now  I  must  bring  this  long  scrawl  to  a  close, 

And  send  it  along  or  else  burn  it; 
And  which  would  be  better  the  dear  only  knows; 
I  guess,  though,  I'll  risk  it,  so  forward  it  goes, 
Away  from  the  land  of  content  and  repose, 
Where  nature  her  beauty  so  richly  bestows, 
Away  from  the  land  where  the  orange  tree  grows, 
The  land  of  the  lily,  the  land  of  the  rose, 
Away  through  the  poppy  fields,  over  the  snows, 
To  where  our  old  sumach  friends,  half  the  year  froze, 
The  other  half  dream  of  some  worse  kind  of  woes; 
If  for  your  old  chummies  your  friendship  still  glows, 
And  warmly  the  tide  of  affection  still  flows, 
Send  onward  this  letter  the  way  the  wind  blows; 
But  if  my  good  plan  you're  inclined  to  oppose, 
And  if  at  this  letter  you  turn  up  your  nose, 

Then  wrap  the  thing  up  and  return  it. 
4,  i,  '06. 


118 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


THE  HOME  ON  THE  HILL. 

Yes,  I  recognize  the  old  home  'mid  the  trees 
Where  cedars  and  maples  are  growing, 

Where  oft  I  sat  watching  the  birds  and  the  bees 
While  soft  summer  breezes  were  blowing. 

Where  often  I  sat  when  the  earth  was  in  bloom 
And  dreamed  of  the  years  that  were  coming, 

Or  pensively  lay  and  inhaled  the  perfume 
And  heard  the  gay  grasshopper  drumming. 

We  gazed  at  the  glorious  tints  of  the  dawn 
And  saw  the  whole  heavens  illuming, 

Or  followed  the  butterfly  over  the  lawn 
And  out  where  the  clover  was  blooming. 

Where  once  a  gay  apple  seed  flipped  out  and  sped 

At  J.  S.'s  noggin  and  spat  it; 
He  said  that  I  hit  not  a  hair  of  his  head, 

No  wonder,  just  run  and  look  at  it. 

Twas  late  in  the  winter,  eighteen  sixty-three, 
Or  when  early  March  winds  were  blowing 
The  year  my  wild  oats  grew  as  high  as  could  be 
And  yet  never  paid  for  the  sowing. 

119 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

And  I  am  not  sure  that  it  ever  does  pay, 
But  when  we  are  young  we  don't  know  it, 

We  seek  for  the  crop  we  can  garner  to-day 
And  have  a  good  time  while  we  sow  it. 

But  here  I  am  preaching  a  sermon  to  you, 

Excuse  me,  I  didn't  intend  it, 
That  ill  would  repay  you  for  that  pretty  view 

When  you  were  so  kind  as  to  send  it. 

'Twas  March,  as  I  said,  may  be  earlier  still, 
And  I  was  fifteen  and  quite  merry, 

The  first  time  I  saw  that  old  home  on  the  hill 
Then  standing  quite  out  on  the  prairie. 

The  house  was  of  logs — this  is  only  a  guess- 
Just  such  as  the  writer  was  born  in, 

I  think  it  was  logs,  go  ask  Mr.  J.  S., 

Like  those  we  sometimes  put  the  corn  in. 

But  logs  or  no  logs  it  was  there  all  the  same, 
And  kept  the  wee  family  together, 

And  whether  of  logs,  or  of  brick  or  of  frame 
It  kept  out  the  wind  and  the  weather. 

And  south  of  the  house  was  the  old  roadway  then 
And  west  of  the  house  was  the  stable, 

The  farming  land  was — well,  I  just  dinna  ken, 
I've  gone  just  as  far  as  I'm  able. 

1 20 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

But  east,  north  and  west  there  arose  on  the  sight 
The  boundless,  the  billowy  prairie, 

When  in  from  the  west  I  came  driving  one  night 
An  ox  team,  our  old  Tom  and  Jerry. 

The  lad  that  was  with  me,  the  son  of  a  gun, 

Was  jovial  and  genial  and  jolly, 
And  always  was  ready  to  join  in  my  fun 

And  often,  alas,  in  my  folly. 

The  house  was  quite  full  of  forlorn  refugees, 
But  still  they  made  room  for  my  Aunty, 

But  Newton  and  I  could  lodge  under  the  trees 
Or  hike  for  another  man's  shanty. 

Imagine,  Rowena,  "Stay  out  in  the  breeze" 
That  softly  was  blowing  a  warning, 

"Stay  out  on  the  prairie,  stay  out  if  you  freeze, 
And  wait  for  the  dawn  of  the  morning." 


They  didn't  say  that  but  they  might  just  as  well, 
They  said  they  were  just  overflowing, 

And  we  saw  the  rest,  there  was  no  need  to  tell, 
So  we  said  we'd  better  be  going. 


Down  east  we  saw  nought  but  the  tops  of  some  trees, 

The  rest  was  but  sheer  desolation, 
So  we  thought  it  better  to  stay  there  and  freeze 

Than  risk  a  far  worse  situation. 

121 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

We  drove  in  the  barnyard  and  unhitched  our  team, 
Somewhere  there  just  east  of  the  stable, 

And  ate  a  good  supper  with  sugar  and  cream 
At  dear  Mr.  Fleming's  old  table. 

Then  Newton  and  I  left  the  poor  refugees 
And  hied  ourselves  back  to  the  wagon, 

And  then  to  be  sure  that  we  wouldn't  quite  freeze 
We  took  a  slight  turn  at  the  flagon. 


That  turn  at  the  flagon  will  keep  bobbing  up, 

So  I  will  just  stop  and  explain  it; 
Though  yielding  in  boyhood  I  toyed  with  the  cup, 

Not  once,  no  not  once  did  I  drain  it. 


For  Father  advised  me  ere  it  was  too  late, 
Dear  man,  I  meant  he  should  not  know  it, 

And  under  his  guidance  I  kept  pretty  straight 
And  managed  quite  soon  to  outgrow  it. 

And  though  I'm  ashamed  of  the  record  I  made, 
'Twas  only  three  times  I  consented, 

'Twas  only  three  times  I  was  near  the  down  grade, 
Yet  forty-three  years  I've  repented. 

'Twas  only  three  times  that  I  tackled  the  rye, 
Yet  that  was  just  three  times  too  often, 

I  always  walked  straight  but  I  stepped  pretty  high 
And  stopped  ere  I  got  to  my  coffin. 

122 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Sometimes  I've  been  down  and  sometimes  I've  been  up, 
And  sometimes  I've  been  pretty  frisky, 

But  since  'sixty-three  I've  steered  clear  of  the  cup, 
A  resolute  foeman  to  whisky. 

If  not  in  my  youth,  then,  ah,  there  is  the  rub, 

Good  people,  right  there  is  the  question, 
It  might  have  come  later  and  raised  a  hubbub 

And  been  of  much  harder  digestion. 


Perhaps  it  was  well  that  I  journeyed  that  way 

And  saw  and  escaped  dissipation, 
For  rising  above  it  I  rose  there  to  stay, 

And  live  far  above  all  temptation. 

Perhaps  you  will  say  as  you  ponder  this  o'er: 
"It  might  have  been  well  to  conceal  it, 

You've  kept  your  own  counsel  four  decades  or  more 
What  good  does  it  now  to  reveal  it?" 

Perhaps  you  are  right  and  perhaps  I  am  wrong, 

At  any  rate  I  will  not  press  it, 
But  when  we  get  tripped  as  we  journey  along, 

It  humbles  our  pride  to  confess  it. 

I  knew  you  good  people  would  shy  at  the  tale 

About  that  suspicious  old  flagon, 
And  now  I've  explained  I'll  go  back  to  the  trail, 

Where  were  we? — Oh,  yes,  at  the  wagon. 

123 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

We  found  an  old  sheepskin,  some  carpets  and  traps, 
Though  limited  somewhat  in  number, 

And  you  may  be  sure  we  were  pretty  cold  chaps 
When  finally  ready  for  slumber. 

In  fixing  our  bed  of  the  old  household  truck 

We  did  just  the  best  we  were  able, 
Yet  up  through  the  middle  there  stubbornly  stuck 

The  leg  of  an  old  kitchen  table. 


And  sundry  sharp  corners  were  under  our  backs 

And  divers  old  pots  and  a  kettle, 
While  March  winds  aforesaid  blew  in  through  the  cracks 

And  constantly  tested  our  mettle. 

I  slept  and  I  woke  and  I  wriggled  about, 

I  slept  and  I  dreamed  it  was  snowing, 
I  shook  till  I  thought  that  my  bones  would  drop  out 

While  waiting  for  chanticleer's  crowing. 

But  Newt  soon  awoke  pretty  jolly  and  gay 

And  cheered  up  my  spirits  all  drooping, 
His  genial  good  nature  was  all  in  a  play 

And  soon  we  were  laughing  and  whooping. 

Thus  gaily  we  drove  all  our  sorrow  away 
And  wished  it  would  nevermore  find  us, 

And  then  we  were  off  at  the  dawn  of  the  day 
And  left  the  old  farmhouse  behind  us. 

124 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Just  fifteen  years  later  I  came  to  that  home 
And  glad  was  my  heart  when  I  found  it, 

And  since  then  no  matter  how  far  I  may  roam, 
My  memory  clings  fondly  around  it. 

Till  sighing  shall  cease  and  the  tongue  shall  grow  still, 

Till  spirit  shall  cease  its  repining, 
My  heart  will  still  cling  to  its  friends  on  the  hill 

As  ivy  clings  close  in  entwining. 
i,  8,  '08. 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


CHRISTMAS  PRESENT. 

I  assure  you,  dear  friends,  it  was  pleasant 
To  receive  from  my  class  such  a  present, 

And  more  valued,  I  say, 

Was  your  gift  of  to-day 
Than  the  gift  of  a  king  to  a  peasant. 

Many  thanks,  my  dear  friends,  for  the  token 
And  the  kind  thoughtful  words  you  have  spoken ; 

It  was  such  a  surprise, 

And  the  tears  filled  my  eyes 
When  I  knew  the  old  ties  were  unbroken. 

But  you  know  that  my  work  was  a  pleasure, 
And  I  gathered  invaluable  treasure 

From  the  years  that  we  wrought 

And  the  labor  we  brought, 
And  you  know  that  you  helped  beyond  measure. 

And  you  know  that  you  all  stood  together 
Whether  mild  or  inclement  the  weather, 

And  the  spirit  of  love 

From  the  Father  above 
Bound  your  hearts  like  a  bond  and  a  tether. 

If  our  bark  was  a  moment  unsteady 
Gentle  hands  and  unerring  were  ready 

To  restore  it  to  right, 

Whether  heavy  or  light, 
And  protect  it  from  current  or  eddy. 

126 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

There  was  never  a  hand  to  delay  it, 
There  was  never  a  heart  to  betray  it, 

But  you  pulled  with  your  might 

By  the  day  or  the  night, 
And  no  heart  ever  sought  to  dismay  it. 

But  the  banner  of  Christ  floated  o'er  you, 
And  His  pathway  shone  brightly  before  you, 
And  you  followed  His  word 
While  your  loins  were  begird 
With  His  promise  to  keep  and  restore  you. 

May  your  faith  in  your  Master  ne'er  leave  you, 
May  the  snares  of  the  world  ne'er  deceive  you ; 

As  you  toil  in  the  way 

Ere  you  come  to  that  day 
May  no  sin  ever  hinder  or  grieve  you. 

May  you  sing  in  the  way  as  you're  going, 
And  rejoice  as  the  seed  you  are  sowing; 

May  your  day  and  your  night 

Be  replete  with  delight 
And  your  faith  be  expanding  and  growing. 

May  the  God  of  the  Christian  e'er  guide  you, 
May  no  sorrow  or  ill  e'er  betide  you, 

And,  my  friends  of  the  class, 

In  the  years  that  shall  pass 
May  our  Master  stand  ever  beside  you. 
12,  25,  'oo. 


127 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


THE  OLD  DINNER  HORN. 

Oh,  do  you  recall  it,  the  little  tin  horn? 

Ah,  well,  very  well  I  remember; 
When  far,  far  afield  in  the  meadow  or  corn, 
With  spirit  aglee  or  with  spirit  forlorn, 
Our  labor  grew  near  the  fag-end  of  the  morn, 
Of  all  earthly  sounds  to  persuade  or  to  warn,  . 
Its  tone  was  the  sweetest  heard  since  I  was  born, 

In  April,  in  June  or  November. 

Oh,  glad  was  the  heart  and  so  swift  were  the  feet, 

And  blithely  our  spirits  were  flowing; 
The  forest  was  gay  and  the  flowers  were  sweet 
Whenever  its  welcome  tones  called  us  to  eat, 

When  that  dear  old  horn  we  heard  blowing. 

Sometimes  in  my  musings  I  picture  the  day 

When  first  that  old  horn  was  set  blowing, 
The  bonnie  wee  girls  that  came  in  from  their  play 
And  wanted  to  tote  the  new  tooter  away, 
Their  dress  not  so  modern  and  eke  not  so  gay, 
The  same  girls  whose  heads  are  now  sprinkled  with  gray, 

Who  soon  to  their  rest  will  be  going. 

Or  was  it  before  any  bairnies  had  come 

That  olden  time  home  to  make  brighter? 
Ere  Mother's  old  spinning-wheel  started  to  hum, 

128 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Ere  trouble  and  toil  were  the  chief  of  life's  sum, 
Ere  girlhood  gave  place  to  life's  weary  humdrum, 
Those  years  when  her  burdens  were  lighter? 

It  may  be  our  grandmother  brought  it  along 
One  day  when  she  came  with  her  sewing; 
While  in  from  the  hayfield  were  wafted  a  song, 
The  ring  of  the  crum-crick  in  merry  ping-pong, 
The  swish  of  the  scythe  in  arms  steady  and  strong, 
From  where  the  haymakers  were  mowing. 

And  whence  came  the  money  that  settled  the  bill  ? 

Or  was  the  bill  paid  in  hard  money? 
It  might  be  that  Father  rode  over  the  hill 
Conveying  an  old-fashioned  grist  to  the  mill 
And  eke  to  the  store  with  a  hearty  good  will 

Some  eggs  or  a  few  pounds  of  honey. 

And  when  at  the  eve  he  came  home  from  the  mill 
And  brought  home  the  grist  from  the  milling, 
He  brought  the  old  horn  to  his  bride  on  the  hill 
Awaiting  him  there  with  her  heart  all  athrill, 
Dressed  plainly  in  linsey  with  never  a  frill, 
But  ready  for  cooing  and  billing. 

And  then  for  amusement  they  tested  it  there, 

While  standing  outside  in  the  gloaming, 
With  hair-raising  screeches  and  heathenish  blare, 
Alarming  the  neighbors  and  splitting  the  air, 
And  giving  the  cattle  and  horses  a  scare 
That  sent  them  skyhooting  and  roaming. 

129 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Gone,  gone  is  our  grandmother,  gone  to  her  rest, 

Who  chided  us  times  without  number; 

But  chiding  or  blessing  she  did  for  the  best, 

She  did  her  whole  duty  at  Heaven's  behest, 

She  slumbers  at  rest  in  the  Isles  of  the  Blest, 

And  peaceful  and  sweet  is  her  slumber. 

And  gone  are  the  couple  that  stood  by  the  gate 

And  blew  the  old  horn  in  the  gloaming; 
They  toiled  for  the  bairnies  both  early  and  late, 
When  young  in  their  prime  and  when  old  and  sedate, 
They  went  at  the  call,  they  submitted  to  fate, 
And  long  are  the  years  to  the  bairnies  who  wait, 
And  weary  their  feet  in  their  roaming. 

And  weary  the  heart  and  so  dreary  the  day, 

And  lonely  the  road  we  are  going; 
And  slowly  the  feet  tread  the  long,  dusty  way, 
The  flowers  are  dead  and  the  forest  is  gray, 
The  music  is  sad,  touch  the  chords  as  they  may, 
And  hushed  are  the  voices  forever  and  aye 

We  heard  when  the  old  horn  was  blowing. 

And  gone  is  the  horn  with  our  halcyon  days, 

Its  dust  with  our  lost  ones  is  sleeping; 
It  vanished  away  in  the  mist  and  the  haze, 
Its  echoes  are  dead,  buried  deep  in  the  maze 
Of  childhood's  sweet  land,  where  we  wistfully  gaze, 
As  fade  its  fair  heights  in  the  sun's  dying  rays, 
While  nought  comes  to  us  but  our  weeping. 

130 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


THE  COLUMNS. 

(Missouri  University  Building,  burned  some  years  ago.) 
Yes,  there  are  the  columns,  still  standing  upright 

With  ivy  vines  clambering  o'er  them  ; 
They  stand  there  as  grim  through  the  day  and  the  night 

As  when  we  first  stood  there  before  them. 

It's  thirty-three  years,  now,  since  you  and  I  trod 

The  pathway  that  guided  us  to  them, 
And  many  dear  fellows  now  under  the  sod 

Were  dear  to  us  there  where  we  knew  them. 

What  measure  of  bitterness,  sorrow  and  tears, 

What  downfalls  and  what  dissipation 
Have  come  to  that  crowd  in  those  thirty-three  years ! 

What  honors  and  what  elevation ! 

Oh,  would  that  men  stood,  that  we  ever  could  stand 

As  firm  as  those  columns  of  granite, 
As  true  to  the  purpose  for  which  we  were  planned 

And  sent  to  possess  this  old  planet. 

Then,  when  this  old  world  shall  be  crumbled  to  dust 

And  sent  to  the  limbo  of  chaos, 
We  grandly  would  stand  with  the  true  and  the  just 

Where  sin  never  more  could  betray  us. 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

But  men  are  unlike  the  firm  columns  of  stone, 

Unmoved  in  the  sweep  of  the  ages, 
They're  more  like  the  clay  or  the  chaff  that  is  blown, 

Swept  off  by  each  tempest  that  rages. 

You  ask  me  where  now  are  Court  Yantis  and  Jay, 
Choate,  Wheeler,  Babb,  Mike  and  the  others, 

Louis  Hoffman,  Rash  Feagans,  Buck  Berry  and  Gray, 
And  Sherman,  all  dear  as  our  brothers? 


Some  linger  here  yet  but  their  footsteps  are  slow, 
While  quietly  seeking  for  knowledge, 

And  some  are  promoted,  as  you  and  I  know, 
And  passed  to  a  more  advanced  college. 


They  sat  with  the  Sophs  and  the  Freshmen  no  more, 
Their  ties  with  the  Juniors  were  broken; 

They  distanced  the  Seniors,  they  passed  on  before; 
Their  final  farewells  were  all  spoken. 


They  sang  a  new  song  as  they  hasted  away, 
They  said  their  goodbyes  at  the  station, 

The  moment  had  come,  and  they  could  not  delay, 
To  meet  a  new  matriculation. 


All  pale  were  their  faces  and  dim  were  their  eyes, 
And  folded  their  hands  when  they  started, 

They  silently  went  to  that  school  in  the  skies 
And  left  their  friends  here  broken-hearted. 

132 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

They'll  never  come  back  from  that  school  far  away, 
Though  ceaseless  and  sore  is  our  yearning, 

Matriculates  enter  but  graduates  stay, 
Nor  sigh  for  the  day  of  returning. 

But  were  they  all  ready  to  enter  that  school  ? 

Were  some  without  due  preparation  ? 
Dear  fellows,  they  had  to  submit  to  the  rule, 

And  went  to  the  examination. 

Dear  fellows!    We  do  not  know  how  they  stood  there, 

How  many  of  them  were  accepted, 
How  many  of  them  were  shut  out  in  despair, 

Marked  down  and  shut  out  as  rejected. 

Matriculates  there  had  to  do  their  own  work, 

There  was  no  depending  on  cronies, 
No  chances  were  given  to  cheat  or  to  shirk 

Or  dig  out  their  lessons  with  "ponies." 

Their  entrance  depended  on  labor  well  done 
Through  years  of  hard  toil  and  devotion, 

On  self-sacrifice  since  their  work  had  begun 
Without  any  thought  of  promotion. 

And  soon  we  shall  stand  where  those  dear  fellows  stood 

And  either  be  passed  or  rejected, 
With  no  opportunity  then  to  make  good 

The  chances  we  may  have  neglected. 
i.  8.  '08. 


133 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


THE    CRITIC. 

What  wus  it  you  said,  Tom?  'at  Rube  writ  a  book? 

That  chucklehead — that  little  fakir! 
Why,  that  fellow  wus,  ef  you  jedge  by  his  look, 

Es  dull  es  a  second-rate  baker! 

Why,  him  write  a  book,  Tom — that  blamed  little  fool ! 

By  ginger!  now,  who  would  'a'  thought  it? 
That  same  little  chap  we  had  teachin'  our  school  ? 

Ef  I'd  brung  a  dollar  I'd  bought  it. 

Why,  Rube  used  to  run  an  old  thrashin'  machine; 

He  wusn't  no  sort  of  a  schemer — 
The  quietest  feller  'at  ever  I  seen, 

And  seemed  like  a  sort  of  a  dreamer. 


He'd  set  on  the  horsepower  hours  at  a  time, 
While  all  of  the  rest  wus  a-jestin', 

And  read  an  old  book  or  a  foolish,  old  rhyme, 
While  we  wus  all  settin'  and  restin'. 


They  said  'at  he'd  never  git  on  in  the  world, 
And  never  would  be  wuih  a  dollar ; 

And  'lowed  'at  his  banner  would  ever  be  furled, 
And  him  led  around  by  the  collar. 

134 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

And,  somehow,  I  thought  'at  the  boys  wus  half  right; 

I  didn't  think  Rube  wus  a  winner ; 
I  thought  'at  he'd  never  win  much  of  a  fight, 

And  some  day'd  be  short  on  his  dinner. 

I  wouldn't  suppose  'at  his  book's  very  much, 

Ef  jedged  by  the  feller  'at  writ  it; 
Might  tell  of  his  workin'  and  teachin'  and  such ; 

He  ought  'a'  worked  on  and  not  quit  it. 

And,  shucks !  I  don't  guess  he'll  win  very  much  fame ; 

It  won't  be  no  hard  job  to  tote  it ; 
Jist  wait  till  them  critics  gits  hold  of  his  name; 

He'll  wish  then  he  never  had  wrote  it. 


And  this  is  the  book  'at  the  wooden-head  writ ! 

By  jing!  let  me  have  it  on  credit; 
I'll  read  it  clean  through  before  ever  I  quit — 

Then  cuss  myself  'cause  I  have  read  it. 

11,  8,  '08. 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


JOHN  OF  TYRONE. 

Old  John  of  Tyrone,  dear  old  John  of  Tyrone, 
Come  out  of  the  silence,  come  unto  your  own, 

And  tell  us  the  tales  in  your  keeping; 
The  stories  they  told  you  when  you  were  a  chap 
And  all  cuddled  down  in  your  fair  mother's  lap, 

Told  often  in  sighing  and  weeping. 

Oh,  where  were  your  grandfathers,  John  of  Tyrone, 
When  William  of  Orange  came  unto  his  own 

Amid  much  confusion  and  bustle? 
Stood  they  with  our  William  when  over  he  came 
To  win  him  a  crown  and  establish  his  name, 

And  give  bonnie  Jamie  the  hustle  ? 

When  England's  false  friends  were  debasing  the  coin, 
When  England's  true  monarch  was  winning  the  Boyne, 

Where  were  they  ?    Out  houghing  the  cattle  ? 
Were  they  with  our  William  when  Boyne  was  at  flood 
And  William  for  England  shed  Protestant  blood? 

Or  with  Bonnie  Jamie  in  battle? 

And  when  the  Stuart  star  in  adversity  set 
When  exile  and  penury  were  to  be  met, 

Was  that  the  sad  day  of  their  weeping? 
Or  rode  they  in  triumph  as  William  passed  by 
With  England's  proud  banner  unfurled  to  the  sky, 

Where  William's  grave  cohorts  were  sweeping? 

136 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

And  when  those  brave  soldiers  for  country  and  God, 
Shut  up  within  walls  of  old  Erin's  green  sod, 

Fought  nobly  in  old  Londonderry, 
Did  they  stand  for  William,  your  worthy  old  sires, 
Did  they  warn  their  comrades  with  bright  beacon  fires 

That  blazed  from  old  Ulster  to  Kerry? 

Were  they  with  the  heroes  that  won  in  the  fight, 
Or  were  they  cut  down  ere  the  end  was  in  sight 

By  slaughter,  disease  or  starvation? 
Perhaps  they  returned  to  their  families  to  tell 
The  tale  of  the  siege  and  their  comrades  that  fell, 

A  story  of  war's  desolation. 

When  gallant  Prince  Rupert  rode  into  the  fray, 
When  Cavalier  troopers  were  gaining  the  day, 

Was  that  your  old  ancestors'  inning? 
Rode  they  with  the  Prince  as  he  fought  for  the  crown  ? 
Rode  they  with  the  Prince  when  his  f oemen  went  down  ? 

And  triumphed  they  when    he  was  winning? 

And  where  were  your  ancestors,  speak  out  and  say, 
When  Cromwell's  grim  troopers  dismounted  to  pray, 

And  went  from  their  knees  to  their  fighting? 
Did  they  for  the  king  and  the  monarchy  fight? 
Or  did  they  with  Oliver  cleave  with  their  might, 

The  foes  of  their  Commonwealth  smiting? 

And  when  the  Armada  was  swept  on  your  shores 
And  broken  and  pillaged  and  robbed  of  its  stores, 
As  wildly  the  tempests  were  brewing, 

137 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Did  they  smite  the  jewel-decked  grandees  of  Spain, 
And  harry  and  torture  and  murder  for  gain? 
Was  that  the  red  work  of  their  doing? 

Or  were  they  at  home  by  their  fanes  and  their  fires 
Protecting  their  families,  your  good  Celtic  sires, 

And  giving  their  children  instruction, 
While  baser  men  down  by  the  tempest-wracked  main 
Were  luring  and  looting  the  galleys  of  Spain 

And  dealing  out  death  and  destruction  ? 

And  tell  us,  old  man,  when  the  heretic  creed 
Swept  in  by  the  breeze  that  blew  over  the  Tweed 

And  paralyzed  Erin  with  terror, 
Came  they  with  the  fagot,  the  sword  and  the  spear 
To  slice  away  heretic  finger  or  ear 

And  save  Papal  Erin  from  error? 

Or  were  they  consumed  by  a  Calvinist  zeal 
And  were  they  impelled  to  use  Protestant  steel 

To  forward  the  work  of  the  Spirit? 
Perhaps  they  believed  that  all  things  were  foreknown, 
The  Word  was  ordained  for  the  chosen  alone, 

And  no  non-elect  need  to  hear  it. 

Come  out  of  the  silence,  old  John  of  Tyrone, 
Come  out  where  your  children  are  waiting  alone 

To  hear  you  tell  over  your  story, 
The  story  you  heard  in  the  vanishing  years 
Of  torture  and  death,  and  of  sorrow  and  tears, 

Of  deeds  that  were  tragic  and  gory. 
5,  28,  '08. 

138 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


LA  CANADA. 

Have  you  been  to  the  vale 
Sweeping  up  from  Glendale 
When  the  wind  blew  a  gale 
In  wild  La  Canada  ? 

Have  you  wandered  at  will 
When  the  night  wind  was  still 
And  your  heart  was  athrill 
In  the  vale,  La  Canada  ? 

Have  you  sat  half  asleep 
Where  the  shadows  were  deep 
When  the  summer  nights  sweep 
O'er  dark  La  Canada  ? 

Oh !  the  fairest  that  grows 
Is  the  soft-tinted  rose, 
When  the  summer  wind  blows 
In  bright  La  Canada. 

There  the  flowers  never  die, 
There  the  mountains  are  high 
And  their  peaks  touch  the  sky 
Around  La  Canada. 

There  the  piteous  wail 
Of  the  unmated  quail 
Strikes  the  heart  like  a  flail 
In  fair  La  Canada. 

139 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

There  the  mocking  bird  trills 
All  the  music  that  thrills 
The  glad  heart  in  the  hills 
'Round  dear  La  Canada. 

And  the  turtle  doves  greet 
Their  fair  mates  when  they  meet 
With  their  cooings  so  sweet 
In  sweet  La  Canada. 

And  the  lights  of  Mount  Lowe 
In  the  summer  nights  glow 
Where  the  wildflowers  blow 
By  fair  La  Canada. 

There  the  splendor  enthralls, 
And  the  light  grandly  falls 
On  the  Gould  castle  walls, 
By  fair  La  Canada. 

Oh!  the  mist-shrouded  hills 
And  the  grandeur  that  fills 
Every  heart  till  it  thrills 
In  fair  La  Canada. 

Not  a  sad  bell  may  toll, 
Not  a  shadow  may  roll 
O'er  the  undisturbed  soul, 
In  calm  La  Canada. 

There  no  tear  dims  the  eye 
And  no  heart  heaves  a  sigh 
Where  the  summer  birds  fly 
In  fair  La  Canada. 

140 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

And  no  mortal  may  weep 
Where  the  silent  years  sleep, 
As  the  centuries  sweep 
O'er  fair  La  Canada. 

There  the  soul  is  at  rest, 
And  the  spirit  is  blest 
In  the  vale  we  love  best, 
In  dear  La  Canada. 

And  the  day  and  night  seem 
To  glide  by  like  a  dream 
Where  the  softest  moonbeam 
Falls  on  La  Canada. 

There  is  nought  that  will  cloy, 
There's  no  trace  of  alloy 
In  that  valley  of  joy, 

The  sweet  La  Canada. 

'Tis  an  unhappy  day 

When  the  sad  heart  must  say, 

As  it  wanders  away: 

"Farewell !    La  Canada !" 


141 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


RACHEL. 

Where  Salem's  sun  was  shining, 

There  'neath  the  oak  tree's  shade 
Where  hillside  vines  were  twining 
Fair  Rachel's  grave  was  made, 
And  flowers  rare 
Perfumed  the  air 
Where  Jacob's  wife  was  laid. 

When  Salem's  sons  were  sleeping, 
And  Ephrath  wrapped  in  night, 
Old  Isaac's  son  was  weeping 
For  Rachel  lost  to  sight; 
His  joy  was  fled, 
With  Rachel  dead 
His  home  had  lost  its  light. 

His  heart  was  bowed  with  sorrow 

That  pressed  upon  him  sore, 

For  him  no  bright  to-morrow 

Should  e'er  be  kept  in  store; 

Dear  days  beguiled 

With  Laban's  child, 

Alas,  should  dawn  no  more. 

And  through  his  memory  sweeping 

Pressed  thoughts  too  far  to  tell 
When  he  his  flock  was  keeping 
Ere  sorrow's  day  befell, 
The  day  when  he 
In  youthful  glee 
Kissed  Rachel  at  the  well. 
142 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Those  words  untruly  spoken 

In  Isaac's  dimming  sight, 
Those  moral  canons  broken, 
And  juggling  so  with  right 
When  troughs  were  filled 
And  boughs  were  pilled 
And  cattle  specked  with  white. 

When  Salem's  sun  was  shining 
Where  Gihon's  waters  swept 
And  Jacob's  heart  repining 
For  her  who  sweetly  slept, 
He  reared  a  stone 
And  left  alone 
The  one  he  sorely  wept. 

But  darker  years  must  hasten 

Ere  Jacob's  heart  was  whole, 
And  deeper  sorrows  chasten 
Ere  he  should  reach  the  goal ; 
Long  poignant  years 
Sad,  bitter  tears 
Must  chasten  Jacob's  soul. 
5,  28,  '08. 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


THE  DREAMER. 

I  stood  by  the  Judaean  mountains 
Where  terebinths  spread  to  the  sky, 

Where  poppy-worts  grew  by  the  fountains, 
And  saw  the  glad  dreamer  go  by. 

Where  Dothan's  fair  meadows  were  growing, 
Where  well-favored  cattle  were  lowing, 

And  brother-hearts  callous  as  steel, 

I  heard  a  heart-rending  appeal. 

Where  Ishmaelite  rovers  were  lying 

Beneath  the  cold  Syrian  sky, 
Where  Israel's  lone  captive  was  sighing 

Ascended  a  piteous  cry. 

From  Potiphar's  house  with  its  glory 
There  went  up  a  cry  of  despair, 

Till  faith  gently  whispered  the  story 
That  Israel's  Jehovah  was  there. 

Then  humbly,  in  byways  of  duty, 
Consoling  each  grief  and  each  sigh, 

Then  clothed  with  all  grandeur  and  beauty, 
Again  the  glad  dreamer  went  by. 
5,  28,  '08. 


144 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


SANTA  ANA  COMMANDERY,  K.  T. 

You  may  think  of  me  when  you  please,  men, 

Down  there  by  the  sunlit  sea, 
But  down  where  we  took  our  degrees,  men, 

Is  a  bonnie  old  place  for  me. 

You  may  care  not  whether  I  float,  men, 

When  my  bark  sails  out  to  sea, 
But  down  where  we  rode  the  goat,  men, 

How  merry  we  used  to  be ! 

Some  time  when  your  spirits  droop,  men, 

Or  when  every  heart  is  free, 
When  you  whoop  it  up  with  a  whoop,  men, 

Oh,  sing  a  merry  song  for  me. 

We  shall  soon  be  sailing  away,  men, 

Far  over  the  sunlit  sea, 
Do  you  know  where  you're  going,  Oh,  say,  men, 

Do  you  know  where  your  port  will  be  ? 

Over  yonder  beneath  the  trees,  men, 

In  a  lodge  where  the  heart  is  free, 
Where  we  take  our  higher  degrees,  men, 

Don't  you  fail  to  meet  with  me. 

9,  7,  '08. 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


TOM. 

You  may  snub  me  from  the  start,  Tom, 
You  may  pass  me  by  with  a  frown, 

You  may  give  me  the  marble  heart,  Tom, 
You  may  cut  me  and  turn  me  down ; 

But  I'll  swear  by  you  to  the  end,  Tom, 
Though  you  never  should  heed  my  call, 

I  will  mark  you  down  as  my  friend,  Tom, 
As  the  bonniest  friend  of  all. 


I  may  never  again  hear  your  voice,  Tom, 

Full  of  cheer  as  it  used  to  be, 
But  how  often  it  made  me  rejoice,  Tom, 

In  the  days  when  the  heart  was  free. 

And  you  never  may  read  these  lines,  Tom, 
You  may  scatter  them  forth  in  the  cold, 

But  as  long  as  the  spirit  repines,  Tom, 
You  will  be  my  good  friend  as  of  old. 

How  often  our  hearts  are  glad,  Tom, 
On  account  of  the  friends  we  choose, 

How  often  our  hearts  are  sad,  Tom, 
On  account  of  the  friends  we  lose. 

146 


THE  PARCHMENT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Dear  days  when  you  were  a  boy,  Tom, 
Long  lost  with  the  vanished  years, 

That  season  without  alloy,  Tom, 
That  never  knew  care  or  tears. 

Some  day  we  shall  come  to  the  end,  Tom, 
Over  there  on  the  sunset  shore, 

And  then  we'll  be  friend  and  friend,  Tom, 
As  we  were  in  the  happy  yore. 
10,  n,  '07. 


